Sowing in the Field of Green-O
by stefanie bean
Summary: In Storybrooke, Anton the Giant is growing a new crop of magic beans, but what he really needs is a happy ending.
1. The Sower and the Sown

**Chapter 1: The Sower and the Sown**

Anton the giant and six dwarves had just finished preparing the field at the edge of town for the sowing of magic beans.

While Anton wasn't giant-sized in this new world in which he found himself, he had been a giant in his own. Not much of one, though. A failure in every respect, when you came down to it. Deceived by Prince James and Jack, those lying human scum, who befriended him and then sacked his castle. Guilty for the deaths of his giant-brothers, at James' and the soldiers' poisoned hands. Then, with the castle overrun, he had to sow salt in the bean fields, to keep the humans' hands off the giants' greatest treasure.

Now he stood with the dwarves in a tired cluster, all of them rubbing their sore hands.

Leroy, the chief dwarf, turned to Anton. "Drop her in the hole, then."

From his vest pocket, Anton took a tiny glass vial, in which rested a glowing green sprout. Fading sunlight cast its last rays on the glass, making it glint red. "Not yet. I have to do the ritual."

"Don't you need a woman for that?" said one dwarf. "I've had no luck in this town for months. Believe me, I've tried."

"Speak for yourself," said another.

"Bugger off, pretty boy."

Leroy scoffed, "Ritual, schmitual."

"No," Anton repeated, stubborn. "It needs the ritual."

Maybe this bean field in this village of "Story-brook," in the kingdom the locals called "Main" might actually produce something. Maybe this one wouldn't end with death, carnage, and heaps of destroyed plants, of death-salt sown into the earth instead of life.

Leroy rolled his eyes. "Just stick her in the hole, Tiny, and be done. Then we can all go home."

When David Nolan pulled up to the side of the field in his pick-up truck and beeped the horn, Anton said, "You go on ahead without me, guys." So each of the dwarves punched Anton in the arm, their typical way of saying good-night. They piled into the truck, and were gone.

Anton waited until the truck rattled down the bumpy road, out of sight. He then started off towards the village, the cool night breeze ruffling his red robes.

When he got to the edge of town, he scraped his muddy boots onto the hard sidewalk, rubbing his sore arm for a moment. He was looking for the place where he'd eaten earlier that day, the ale-house they called "Granny's die-ner" (though there was no sign anybody had died there.) Tired as he was, his appetite rumbled through him.

The sun had fallen completely now, leaving the streets deep in shadow. The way to Granny's had seemed plain before, but he must have turned left when he should have gone right, or maybe it was the other way around. No matter, he couldn't find Granny's anywhere.

One particular street looked a little familiar even in the rapidly approaching dark, so he followed it for awhile. But it led to a strange neighborhood, one with shabby, crowded buildings with no welcoming gardens out front, and few trees. He forgot about the curb and almost tripped, then stopped, agape.

There was another "die-ner" on the corner. This one bore a front door of worn, unpainted wood, and its display window was far smaller than Granny's. Even so, a warm light glowed from within, scattering across the glass window. So much glass here in "Story-brook," everywhere. These people whose ranks he had joined this very morning must be rich as kings with all this glass. Where he came from, glass was as valuable as gold, and rarer. Not as precious as magic beans, though.

Better yet, from inside rolled the rich smell of spicy cooking, and the yeasty odor of hot bread. Anton's mouth watered. As he swung the door open, a small bell tinkled.

"We close in five," a woman called out from the kitchen. "I can give you something to go."

He didn't say anything, because he had no idea what she was talking about. The kitchen doors swung open and the woman herself emerged. When she saw him, the look of annoyance on her face changed to surprise. "Hey," she said.

"Hey yourself."

"I heard about you. Ruby Lucas came by earlier and told me all about it."

Ruby, the beautiful woman named after a gem, who had served him ale at Granny's. His laugh came out small and nervous. "I'm Anton, but the dwarves call me Tiny. Will you take gold for some grub?"

A wide smile brightened her face. Light sprinkles of silver dusted her brown hair, and a few wrinkles embroidered her eyes. The apron pulled tight against her generous breasts, as well as half-way across her wide bottom.

"Mom?" came another voice from the kitchen.

"Out here, Alexis."

A young woman appeared through the kitchen doors, blinking her wide doe eyes at Anton. "Wow. You're the one who made that big hole over on Dock Street."

"Yeah," he said in embarrassment. "That was me."

The woman gave Anton a long, warm look, as if she recognized something about him, and had made a decision. "Alex, take the station wagon home and make sure Bonnie and Bluebell get milked." The woman gave her daughter a kiss, then shooed her out the door.

She turned the sign hanging on the front door from "Open" to "Closed," and offered her hand to Anton. "I'm Brigid."

He stared at her hand for a heartbeat, then lifted his own, crusted with dirt from the field.

"Did you plant the beans yet?" Brigid asked. "Ruby said you were going to."

Her first glance had gone over him like a flood of warmth. This one, if possible, carried even more weight. She must have been working over the hearth before he arrived, because her skin glowed red, and a slight waft of heat rose from her cheek up to his. In a soft voice Anton said, "No, not yet."

She pulled back a little, a bit flustered and hesitant now. "I see." Then she took his hands in hers. "Well, you can't sit at my counter like that. Come on, the bathroom's over here."

"Bathroom?" he said, following her.

"You mean—" Brigid said, laughter in her voice. "You have to understand, I've never been to the Enchanted Land. I hear things are different there. But here in Storybrooke there are laws. Health codes."

She stepped into the unisex bathroom after him. Between the two of them, it was a tight squeeze. "Look, here's the soap."

Amazingly, the silky blue liquid flew out of a silver box mounted on the wall. Water squirted in little jets from the porcelain fountain's silver handles. Anton turned the left one on all the way, stuck his dirt-covered hand under the stream, then yanked it out at once. "Ow!"

She added cold water to the hot. With a smile she filled her hands with soap and took his hands in her own. "It's OK. I had to show Alexis, too. Of course, she was a toddler then."

The brown mud washed away easily as she rubbed his hands and forearms, pulling aside his long embroidered sleeves. He didn't want it to be over, but soon it was. She wedged her way around his body, out the door. "You're going to have figure out the loo for yourself."

Back at the counter, she had set out a steaming tureen of lentil-carrot chili and a hunk of wheat bread. "Butter?"

Anton shook his head. He felt suddenly unsure, out of his depth. "So, you don't have to get home to Alexis's father?"

"She doesn't have a father."

"Oh, I'm sorry. So he's, gone or something?"

In a soft, dreamy voice she said, "Can the wind ever be said to be gone?"

Anton's eyes grew wide. What luck, just like that he'd stumbled upon someone who not only knew the ancient ritual of the bean fields, but was willing to help him besides. He pulled the bread apart and sopped up the stew with it, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she scrubbed the counters. When he finished his stew, he gave her an appealing look, and she served him a second, then a third time.

He set two thick gold coins on the counter. "Is that enough?"

She took off her apron and stood very close to him. "It's on the house, Anton."

He could smell her warm fresh scent. He didn't know what to say, fearing he'd get all tongue-tied or stammer, but it wasn't necessary to say anything at all.

Brigid put on her coat. "I'm glad you didn't plant it without me. Come on."

The night was cool, although the sea breeze had blown in a little warmth. Her truck was even older and more full of rattles than David's, but he didn't care.

When they walked across the newly-tilled field, he took her hand in his, not sure what to do next. A fattening moon hung overhead, dusting the dark earth with silver. Even though there was only one shoot to sow, the dwarves and Anton had cut deep furrows into the entire field.

As Brigid started to undress, he said, suddenly worried, "Aren't you going to be cold?"

"I'm never cold when I rest on my Mother. And you'll cover me."

At that, his cheeks flushed bright red in the moonlight. She reached up around his head and undid the string which bound his long curly hair. It fell all down around his shoulders and she fluffed it for a moment.

She showered kisses silver as moonlight onto his mouth, then piled her clothes and his carefully onto her coat on the ground. By that time he wasn't thinking of the moon any more, or the cool night breeze, or how the rich black earth supported her body when she stretched out into one of the furrows, arms open, legs spread wide. He leaned over her, ready, oh so ready.

She bore his weight and cried out to the stars.

After he had serenaded the heavens with his own wild cries, he rolled over and pulled her on top of him, first brushing the dirt off her back, then stroking, just stroking for the pleasure of it. She lay on his breast breathing heavily, both of them covered by a cold quilt of stars.

She was first to speak. "You sure aren't tiny. I think I'll just call you Anton."

He laughed, his body shaking under hers. Hope bubbled up inside him, something he hadn't felt in ever so long. "I guess it's time."

She squatted on her haunches, naked. He saw how she shivered, but didn't offer her his robe. This was the most critical time of all, when the stars needed to cover their skin, not fabric.

From the vial, he shook the tiny green shoot onto his broad palm. The bean sprout was just a baby, but in it rested a whole world. Stalks would weave together like green ropes, and would produce fruit which could join the worlds.

Anton's people had been tasked to guard the beans, to protect them as if they were the greatest treasure in the world. Even if he was the last of them, that was his task, too: to guard the last magic bean of its kind. But it would grow. It had to.

His body still glowed from the first part of the ritual. Now came the second part, equally critical. "Brigid, I can't do this alone," he said in almost a whisper. "Will you help me?"

For answer she put her hand on his, and together they poked a hole in the soft black earth. Together they rested the sprout in its new home, shoot-side up so that on the morrow it would point towards the sun. Together they patted down the dirt, but not too firmly.

Atop that last beanstalk high in the sky, Anton had once sown salt into the fields, mingled with his tears. Now, under this moon, he had sown life. Maybe, just maybe, tonight would be the start of something better.

( _continued_ )


	2. The Changer and the Changed

**Author's Note:** _In this story, people from our world are able to go in and out of Storybrooke sometimes, as well as living on the margins. Also, even though the Enchanted Forest folk call our world "the land without magic," it canonically does have magic in it._

 _The three Grey Sisters hearken to the three Fates or the Graeae in Greek mythology, or the three Norns in the Norse._

 **If you're not familiar with OUaT:** _Canon characters in this chapter are Sister Astrid (Nova, a fairy) and Mother Superior (Blue Fairy.) I gave two of the other nuns names. Leroy (Dreamy) and Astrid (Nova) were in love in the Enchanted Forest, but their budding relationship was nipped by the Blue Fairy. In canon, Astrid eventually disappears from the story and her relationship with Leroy is inconclusive; I expand upon it in this story._

* * *

 **Chapter 2: The Changer and the Changed**

The morning after Brigid had lain with Anton in the newly-tilled bean field, her moon-time came. She stared at her reflection in the restaurant bathroom mirror, at the very sink where she and Anton had stood hip to hip, taking note of the silvering brown hair, the tired lines around her eyes. _Even if you serve the Green Lady in the fields, you still fade_.

After splashing some cold water on her face, Brigid went into the kitchen to brew some tea.

False unicorn root and red raspberry leaf, black cohosh and blue, nettle for iron and a tiny pinch of penny-royal for thorough emptying. But who knows? Perhaps Anton had left something inside her besides pleasure and his own sea-wild wetness. Brigid had never caught in the sowing ritual, even when younger. But she left out the penny-royal, just to be safe.

Sunday brunch was popular at Storybrooke's only exclusively vegetarian restaurant, The Bread Basket. Colorful swirling letters on the chalkboard outside read, "Brunch: $13.95, All You Can Eat, 10 AM—2 PM." When Brigid peeked her head out the swinging kitchen doors for a second, no customer tried to catch her eye, which was just fine with her. She'd check on them in a minute, after she got the tea water on to boil.

Alex carried a fresh tray of Eggs Benedict to the buffet table, smiling. When Brigid didn't smile back, she said, "You OK, Mom?"

"Just a bit under the weather."

"Too late a night last night, huh?" Alex's look said, _Ha, caught you out_.

"My aunt with the red dress showed up right as we opened."

"Sorry, Mom, that sucks. You need to sit down?"

It was a strange reversal, to be babied by her daughter. "I've got some tea on."

"I'll close up," Alex volunteered.

"That would be great, sweetheart." Brigid looked around the crowded restaurant, adding dimes to dollars. Sunday brunch was when they made most of their money. And even that was touch-and-go. But there was a line at the buffet, and a couple of customers were waiting for a table. Good, just the right size crowd. Too busy, people would turn away. Too empty, people would think you weren't any good.

Not that there were a lot of new customers. Truckers who accidentally took the exit which led to Storybrooke never got that far. Hungry as they were, they decided to wait till Bucksport or even Bangor for that chicken-fried steak with white gravy.

The farther they got from the highway, the more their skin crawled. They suddenly had an overpowering urge to urinate, even though they'd emptied out at the truck stop ten miles back. Or their rigs, haunted by old repairs, started to make odd clunking noises. It wasn't until the truckers turned around and headed back to I-95 that they realized how badly they'd been sweating, how clenched their guts had been.

And summer people, well, what summer people? Same with tourists. Every other picturesque little Maine coastal town had them. Crawled with them from June to October, in fact. But not Storybrooke.

Or take the pleasure boaters who sailed up and down the coves and inlets of Penobscot Bay on summer days soft as a sea nymph's breast. For some reason, boaters didn't come into Storybrooke's cove. The prevailing winds turned ugly, or waves swept them out to sea where no waves had been before. Or those on board suddenly remembered that the lobster was a lot better in Belfast or Stockton, so they changed their tack and sailed in the opposite direction.

In a sense, then, you could say that pretty much everyone here was a regular. Except the new one, conspicuous by his absence.

 _He's probably down at Granny's, with Leroy and the rest._ Brigid restocked the buffet table with rolls filled with cheese from her own goats, trying to ignore the disappointment. The whole town was talking about how the six dwarves had become seven again, with the addition of Tiny to their ranks.

"We'll see about that," Brigid said to herself.

The dwarves didn't often come to The Bread Basket. For one thing, they liked meat. Lots of meat. Thick steaks smothered in onions and mushrooms. Obscenely long sausages stuffed to bursting. Fried chicken dripping with grease. Brigid had no objection to meat herself. When a hen stopped laying, into the stew pot she went. If a nanny refused to "catch" no matter how often she was bred, into the freezer with her.

But the restaurant was another matter. Find a need, fill a need, as they say. Even a town as insular as Storybrooke had its clean-eating enthusiasts, its vegetarians, even a few vegans. So no meat appeared on the Bread Basket's menu, although Brigid served eggs and cheese from her small homestead. Sidney Glass had praised her cream sauces back in the days when he still ran a newspaper, and wasn't under forensic watch at Storybrooke Hospital.

Even magical Maine towns had their snake-pits, didn't they?

Another thing kept the dwarves away. There, at a sunny window table, sat Astrid and two other nuns, Hester and Tara. Or was it former nuns? They still wore nunnish blue, still glided about in that almost magical way which looked more like ice skating than walking. They still sat with feet flat on the floor, elbows neatly at their sides. But now their heads bent in towards one another as they spoke, as if afraid their soft-voiced conversation would be overheard.

The very day of the Change, on that day when the fairy-tale folk recovered their memories of the Enchanted Land, the nuns had shown up at Brigid's door. Astrid spoke for them all as she begged Brigid for a place to stay. They were never going back to the convent. That was over.

Brigid had fully expected Mother Superior to come striding into the restaurant, demanding that her daughters return to the fold. Brigid had told them without hesitation that of course they could stay. She led the nuns to the small, shabby upstairs apartment and gave Astrid the key.

So the deal was done. But that wasn't the end of it.

That very same night the nuns had moved in, just as Brigid was headed out the back door to go home, Astrid had come downstairs to the kitchen. In between sobs she told Brigid how she had once been a fairy called Nova. Every one of the nuns had been fairies, it seemed. And Mother Superior ruled them with a fist of iron.

Of all the Change stories Brigid had heard over the weeks, Astrid's was the strangest, of fairies with wings who could appear small when they wanted to. In Brigid's own experience, those beings called themselves the fae, not fairies, and they weren't small. Nor did they have wings. But they could be equally dangerous.

The worst part of the story was yet to come. After Brigid had poured Astrid a glass of red wine to calm her down, Astrid told her tale. In the Enchanted Land, she and Leroy (called Dreamy back then) had been in love. They rendezvoused on a hilltop glowing with fireflies and starlight, planning to elope. But then Dreamy had literally just walked away and left her flat, babbling some nonsense about how "dwarves couldn't love."

Astrid had no idea what had become of Dreamy after that. Cold and numb, she returned to her fairy tasks, trying to forget him. Mostly she had, until in Storybrooke, Leroy had charmed her once again. Once more had he let her down with broken promises. Then she had awoken to who she really was.

"The dwarves still tell themselves that prattle," Astrid had said to Brigid. "And Mother Superior cheers them on, because they work for her. They're useful."

She then went on, telling Brigid how fairy dust was obtained by the willing labor of the dwarves, who believed they were destined to do nothing but work for whoever set them at their task.

That's when Brigid's face grew red and her jaw set. At that point, Brigid resolved to greet Mother Superior with a baseball bat if she stepped a toe in Brigid's restaurant.

Mother Superior never showed, however, and the rebel nuns lived their quiet lives above the restaurant, helping Brigid out on a regular basis. They didn't work the brunch, though. Sunday was their day off, for old habits were hard to break.

Astrid's story appalled Brigid and made her slightly sick. She liked Leroy, with his blunt expressions and hard-fisted ways. He reminded her of the older men from her childhood home in County Clare, back in Ireland. It sounded, though, like the dwarves had been so effectively bred for servitude that they didn't even question it.

Now, the dwarves considered Anton one of them, and perhaps he thought likewise. After the ritual of sowing was done, Brigid had dropped Anton off at the dwarves' brick ranch house on the outskirts of town.

Maybe Anton hadn't shown his face this morning because of the dwarves. Who were avoiding the fairies. Who were sitting prominently in the plate-glass window in her restaurant, conspicuously avoiding Granny's as well.

And if dwarves weren't supposed to love, weren't supposed to form attachments, well, then, you could probably add avoiding Brigid herself to that list.

She was supposed to put Anton out of her mind, anyway. That's how it had always worked before, with the blessing of the fields. But like the low hum of a sound-track right beneath the level of hearing, Brigid kept coming back to love. Or not-love, as the case may be, although she figured that more love had gotten made in that field last night than in half the marriage beds across the state of Maine.

Love, though. What was love, actually? Rules knit the worlds together, rules which Brigid, despite her years of service to the mysteries, only barely understood. All the worlds, all the places of power: the mountains, the islands, the wells deep in the forest, even small towns like this one, all bent to laws knit into their very frames. Life demanded life, even so small an offering as Brigid and Anton had made, lying together for the reaping.

The bottom line was, the rules which shaped the world cared not for your small joys. Not so small joys, though, she had to admit. Delight pulsed through her even now, at the memory of Anton's broad, heavy body over hers. The powers behind the worlds could break person, fae, or even gods under their vast eight-spoked wheel. And they often did.

But in the meantime, sometimes ( _like last night_ ) it could be very sweet.

* * *

It was almost two in the afternoon, and a few customers lingered over their coffee. _Enough moping,_ Brigid told herself. There was Alex to think of, for one thing. And sometime down the road her sputtering pink thread would dry up entirely. Then it would be time to put on a new cloak altogether, the gray mantle of the crone who shakes the feather-beds so that the snows fly.

As Brigid poured herself a cup of coffee, two of Alex's friends came in. Alex showed them to a table, then joined her mother behind the counter. "I told Jen and Amy they could have brunch if they helped me clean up." She looked at her mother, face lit up by the prospect of a challenge.

Brigid just smiled. "Sure."

"And Carl might come by too."

"No problem, honey. I've got some flour and rice bags that need to be hauled up from the cellar, and he's just the guy."

Alex wasn't through yet. "Jen, Amy, and me, we stopped by at Granny's earlier. The dwarves were there, and a couple of them started to arm-wrestle. They got into a friendly argument over who won."

"I can imagine," Brigid said, rolling her eyes.

"Then Anton broke it up. You should have seen it, Mom." Alex looked at Brigid out of the corner of her eye, alert to the slightest twitch or quiver.

"So, when you were over at Granny's, was Ruby working the counter?"

"Um, yeah. Why?"

"No reason. Just curious." Brigid grabbed the coffee pot, to freshen the last cups of other customers listening in on the conversation.

Of course Ruby would be at the helm when shenanigans like that got started. Everybody looked at Ruby, even women. Brigid had more than once, she had to admit. Dwarves might not fall in love, but more than once Brigid had caught them looking too. So no surprise that Anton would as well.

It didn't do any good to get personal, or to think about love. She wasn't bound to Anton, because the work of the fields was done. The crop was sown, and if her track record held, it would flourish.

Love, though, that was deep magic. Brigid had sense enough to know that one flowed where it willed.

Alex cleared counters while her friends bussed tables. Through the window, Brigid caught sight of the three Grey sisters across the street, heading straight for the restaurant.

"Sweetie, you must have homework. Why don't you and the girls head on up to the house? Help yourselves to the gooey butter cake in the fridge. I'll send Carl along if he shows up."

"Mom, you've been here since six this morning."

"It's OK. I close at two, remember? Anyway, all that's left here is some kreplach casserole and cauliflower curry. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I'll turn the sign to 'Closed.'" _Besides_ , _you got to chat with your friends. Now I need some wise counsel from mine_.

Alex gave Brigid a hug. "You work too hard, Mom."

"When you love what you do," Brigid said, "it doesn't feel like work."

( _continued_ )


	3. The Greening of Brigid

**Chapter 3: The Greening of Brigid**

On a fine Midsummer morn in the year of our Lord 1844, young Brigid O'Dea went to fetch the water at sunrise. Sixteen summers had she seen, and the yearning for adventure burned in her breast. But poor were her da and five siblings all, scrabbling out a crofter's existence in County Clare on the green isle of Erin.

A fair island it was, too, set like a lush emerald jewel in the breast of the dark grey sea, a fine bauble to decorate Queen Victoria's realm. And be assured, Britannia bound her province to her copious breast with bands of iron. For many a century had the men of Erin fought, but England's soldiers were stronger, leaving Erin to evasion and sabotage. The tributes were high, and the worst was when the young men of Erin went to fight in Britannia's wars.

A trudge of two miles to the well it was, as the old one close by their cottage was now dry as a nun's purse. So Brigid made the walk to the new well twice each day, paying the old one no mind.

However, on this morning which changed everything, the old dry well echoed with the most piteous cries. Brigid could have walked on by. Believe you me, she thought about it. The sun was climbing; the road was dusty, and she was already worn out from the milking and the baking. Curiosity got the better of her, though, so she went over to look anyway.

Brigid peered down into the dark well. In its shadowy depths someone yelled again, an old woman from the sound of her. So Brigid tied her own bucket to the creaking pulley and lowered it down. "Here, take hold."

"Heave away," came a voice like a rusty hinge. As Brigid pulled, her heart pounded in fear, for light as a feather the old woman was. Surely the woman she'd rescued was an Old One, one of the fae.

And indeed fae she was. She'd offended a wizard, who had cast her into the well, and cast a spell such that none could lift her out save a human. None of her own folk were allowed to help, or sure as you're born, she'd have been back to shaking her feather-beds and baking her bread long ago. As it so happened, the fae woman had been down in that well all day and night, and was mighty tired of it.

So to reward her, the Old One offered Brigid a choice. On one hand, in a few years a fine strapping Dublin man would offer Brigid a life of steadfast love, a secure home, warm nights under the comforter, a houseful of children, and then whatever dreams might follow the death-sleep of humankind.

But there was another possibility, too. Brigid could go into the service of the Green Lady. It meant the freedom to go at will at sowing time all bare-naked in the green-o, under the equinoctial or solstice moon. But there were strings. No apron strings, to be sure, but no one man's head to share her pillow, either.

And no fixed home. Rather, the wind would blow her like a leaf along the margins and the corners, into the wild places on the border between sleeping and waking.

Brigid might settle for a time in those special places, where the walls between the worlds were worn thin as a clipped coin. But else-wise she'd have to travel, and everywhere she went, the corn would grow high and the fruit would hang heavy on the branch.

"Will I die?" Brigid wanted to know.

"All things die," the fae woman answered. "You'll fade in time, like all the children of earth. The mermaids get their three hundred, then back to the sea foam they go. After two hundred fifty years, the dwarves return to the stone from which they were made. For you, maybe a little less."

"What happens to the fair folk? Do you die, too?"

"Don't get pert with me, girl. Our secrets are our own to keep. Will you serve the Green Lady, aye or nay?"

At first it didn't seem to young Brigid like a hard decision. Her own mum had died, worn out by bearing twelve children. Yes, her da had doted on them before their mewling cries faded to silence in the cradle, and he had loved her mum as well. Not that it stopped him from siring yet another babe upon her.

However, her da hadn't raised a fool, and Brigid wanted to know a few particulars first. "What are the terms?"

"Terms," the old woman mused. "Smart girl, asking for terms. As you know, all magic comes with a price. Here's yours." Then she told Brigid something astonishing. "The winds shall get a daughter on you, whenever they will. Just one is all they ask."

"Will they steal her from the cradle?" Brigid's panic rose. She'd seen too many women die in child-bed; seen too many babes whimper and fade. To bear a babe only to have it ripped away, that would be too cruel. And everyone knew that the Old Ones, the fair folk, took children.

The old fae woman looked surprised. "Of course not. How would you ever have the raising of her?"

"That seems no price at all. What's the catch? How many others must I bear in the blessing of the fields?"

"I'll warn you," the fae woman said. "Don't even think about potions or midwives' tricks. That will break the magic. When you lie down upon the land, the land comes first. The land takes from you what it needs. There'll be nothing left for the growing of a babe. Not unless it be a babe of the winds."

"So I'll lie with men, but not bear?" That sounded too good to be true, it did.

The fae woman must have read Brigid's mind. "Nothing's ever too good to be true, Missy. I know girls and their tricks, their dreams, their secret ways." She crossed her thin wrinkled arms, a little impatient now. "I've said my piece, and haven't got all day to dicker with you."

But Brigid pushed on, heedless. "One more thing about these farmers whose fields I bless. Must I lie with any who ask? Or just the ones I fancy?"

The old fae woman laughed such a ragged caw that the blackbirds on a nearby bush flew away in surprise. "I've never seen such a one as you. You'd rewrite the whole contract with the devil himself. Yes, Missy, only the ones you fancy. I thought that would have been obvious."

"Nothing ever is. My da always told me that. Landlords have been cheating him his whole life, and as the eldest I was always right there to see it. I was glad to pull you out of that well, reward or no, but I won't let you cheat me. I won't have any man that I don't fancy."

"And so you never shall."

Brigid thought about it for about three seconds. "I'll cast my lot with the Green Lady."

The old fae woman smiled, her teeth white and shining for one so old. From her apron pocket she took out a coin of fairy gold and a long sharp needle. "Your finger," she demanded. With the needle she pricked Brigid's finger, so that a single drop of blood fell onto the coin. Briefly it glowed red, then faded once more to gold. "Put it in your stocking, and spend it only in dire necessity."

The bargain was done, sealed in blood.

Twelve moons later found Brigid's da dead from the Great Famine, all her siblings gone to heaven save two, and those given to the Sisters who ran the orphanage at Ennis. Brigid ran away so the sisters wouldn't catch her as well. The fae coin must have brought her luck, because even in the first wave of famine, the fields in which she lay still bore, at least for awhile.

Then the second famine came, and even Brigid's now-honed skills couldn't stop the potatoes from rotting in the field. So from her stocking she took the fae coin, and with it booked passage on the good ship _Jeanie Johnston_ to the port of New York.

City life didn't suit Brigid, though, so she wandered from farm to farm, helping with the sewing, washing sheets, even reaping. In between she lay in the plowed furrow, as moonlight shone on the bare backside of some landsman who'd caught her eye.

As the cities grew and the farms shrank, Brigid began her travels across North America from east to west and back again, finally coming to rest in Maine. Casting her lot with the fae had been a fair bargain. So steeped had she become in the green magic of earth that she was close to fae herself.

And until this Sunday afternoon in March, as Brigid welcomed the Grey sisters into the Bread Basket for an after-hours brunch, she had never regretted it.

( _continued_ )


	4. The Grey Sisters

**Chapter 4: The Grey Sisters**

Sunday brunch at the Bread Basket was almost over. Alex and her friends had left, and Brigid surveyed the remains: a few casseroles, a basket of barley rolls, a pot of creamed goat cheese, as well as some cut fruit. When the doorbell tinkled, she wore a broad smile to welcome the three older women who filed in. "Ladies, I've never been happier to see you."

Amanda Grey, and her sisters Amaltheia, and Ambergris (Amber for short) were the last remnants of an old hippie commune perched in the western hills right above Storybrooke. Old Father and Mother Grey had bought the rocky old place for a song on the eve of the Second World War, when Mother Grey was but a bride of twenty.

Father Grey had inherited some money, and his new wife had a bit of the shine. She kept seeing a cloud, a dark cloud creeping over the land. Soon after, Father Grey enlisted in the war, and all Mother Grey would say was, "I told you so."

But Father Grey came back safe and sound three years later. To make up for lost time, Mother Grey birthed three girls one after another, one a year for three years after the war's end.

"Irish triplets all born in the caul," Amanda would say in her deep gruff voice. "You can't beat that for luck."

Father Grey died in 1971, "worn out by a houseful of women," as Mother Grey joked at his wake. Actually, heart trouble had just finally caught up with him. It didn't help, either, that the spring mud was so deep that year, that the ambulance heading up to Grey Hill Farm couldn't get to him fast enough.

Mother Grey stayed on, and with her grown daughters worked the land. The winds of change gusting over the country blew into eastern Maine as well. Like scattering leaves, young people drifted to Grey Hill Farm, drawn by the mist-covered hills and the air of magic which hung over the place. Mother Grey served as matriarch to the wandering seekers, the mages and shamans, the burnouts and occasional con artists who landed at Grey Hill Farm.

One wanderer married Amanda, and another took Amaltheia to wife in gorgeous springtime ceremonies, the brides crowned with garlands of wildflowers. These drifters left children on them, then moved on.

Presiding over all of them was Mother Grey. To her, all the young people were grandchildren, no matter what their origins. They mucked out the chickens, milked the goats, did carpentry repairs, kept the ancient pick-up trucks and station wagons running. They even added a few babies of their own to the mix, delivered by Amaltheia's skilled hands.

Over the years this amorphous band changed shape and faces like an amoeba as people came and went, but the Greys always managed to cough up enough money to pay the taxes and buy heating oil for their twelve-room barn of a house. If those at Grey Hill Farm didn't exactly flourish, they got by.

Then came the day when the Dark Curse was cast, almost three decades ago.

The Grey Sisters woke that morning to find themselves changed. Amanda now knew the lore of every herb and root, and how to doctor with them. She knew the ways of secret things and the workings of the thin places, those where the worlds lay next to one another and sometimes touched.

Amaltheia could cozen and comfort any living creature. If a horse got stuck in the foaling, or a cow in her calving, Amaltheia had only to lay her hands across the creature's flank to bring on the birth. No goat ever kicked or butted her during the milking.

To Amber was given the gift of the cards. That very same night of the Dark Curse, she took from the battered roll-top desk a pack of ordinary playing cards, and laid them out in intricate geometric patterns. Later she got hold of a tarot deck, the ordinary one with colorful cartoons in garish blues and oranges and yellows. More often than not, what Amber saw in the cards came to pass.

Nothing much happened to Mother Grey, it seemed, except that her eye got a little sharper, her judgment a bit more discerning.

Regina Mills, mayor of Storybrooke and the sorceress who had cast the Dark Curse, could never figure out why it didn't seem to affect the Greys in any way, or why they could come and go in and out of Storybrooke as they pleased.

Mr. Gold finally solved the puzzle. He concluded that by some strange coincidence, Grey Hill Farm rested right on the very edge of the boundary where the Curse had taken effect. It was, Gold had said, just like putting a glass dome down over a spider, squashing it halfway between the edge and the outside. But while the hapless spider would be cut in half and alive in neither world, the magic of the Curse had favored the Greys and all who lived on that gentle hillside. That strange, sharp-edged margin had awakened something in both the land and people, a green magic held latent for centuries.

Time passed, for Grey Hill Farm at least, if not for Storybrooke under the Dark Curse. Mother Grey died at eighty-one, taken in her sleep during the winter snows. Shortly after, Amanda came up with the idea to rent out the spare rooms of their big gabled house to travelers drawn by the lore of odd creatures and sightings in the neighboring woods.

"An East Coast Roswell," Amanda had said with a smirk. "Only ours are real."

Oddly, the Greys' curious visitors never saw Storybrooke, no matter how far they wandered into the woods. However, the curtain which separated the town from the outside world had frayed a bit in places. Visitors might see thin, translucent images of Storybrooke people walking about. Those with a strong case of the "shine" might might even hear David, Mary Margaret or Regina talking, like a radio turned down low.

These were the "walk-ins" Grey Hill visitors came to see, and they weren't often disappointed.

The sloped fields grew thick with herbs whose sweet scents filled the drying-barn. Restaurateurs from Boston bought Grey Hill Farm vegetables at obscene prices, earning enough to finance the manure-fueled greenhouse, which provided a steady supply of produce all year long. The Greys gave Brigid a steep discount, though, because Anton's fields weren't the first in the region Brigid had ever blessed. Not by a long shot.

Once Brigid had asked Amanda, "Now that the economy's tanked, aren't you worried that the Boston Brahmins won't be able to afford your prices?" The older woman said in solemn ministerial tones, "My dear, as the Good Book says, the rich will always be with us."

Soon they wouldn't even have to do that, when a few of the grandsons got the methane heater for the house finished. They'd already gotten one up and running for the chicken coops.

"The chickens keep warm by virtue of their own shit," Amanda liked to say. "Wish we could do the same, but no chance. Regina Mills would be down on us like a ton of bricks." Then all three of the sisters would hold their stomachs and howl with laughter. Regina would no more set foot on Grey Hill Farm than she would fly to the moon. Yes, the Greys got by.

Brigid showed the Grey sisters to a table, then hovered a bit, not wanting to sit down unless invited.

"We haven't seen you around," said Amanda.

"As you can see, I'm pretty busy here."

"So take a load off, Brigid. We can help ourselves."

"We could send some of the grand-kids down to help you out," Amaltheia said. To the Grey sisters, anyone under the age of forty was "a kid."

"That'd give Alexis a break," Amber added.

Brigid sat down, grateful to be off her feet. "I'm good, but thanks. The nuns help during the week, and I'm managing."

"They're still nuns, eh?" Amanda said.

"Well, not quite."

"So, how are you all, um, adjusting down here in town?" Amaltheia's tone had a conspiratorial edge.

"Adjusting?"

"You know, the Change. When everyone woke up to who they really were, back in the Enchanted Forest."

"Not everyone," Brigid said. "I didn't. No secret life in a magical kingdom for me."

Amanda rolled her eyes and said, "Green magic isn't like this tom-fool sorcery. It gives the rest of us a bad name."

Brigid mused, "You know, Regina and the rest of the town are kind of like summer people."

"Rude and entitled," Amanda remarked. "Waltz in, take over, and after the locusts have fed, whoosh, out they go. Onto newer pastures."

"I like Regina," Amber protested. "She keeps this place nice."

"Until a wraith or dragon or werewolf busts out of nowhere and breaks up the joint," said Amaltheia. She then fixed Brigid with a naughty expression. "Or a giant."

Brigid flushed. "He's not giant-sized anymore."

"At least not till Regina's dear mother Cora decides to break the spell."

Amber reached out and took Brigid's hand, frowning at her sister. "Amanda, that's a terrible thing to say. Brigid, sweetie, let me ask the cards about it, at least."

"I'll pass," Brigid said. "You know I'm always afraid I'll hear something bad."

"There are no bad readings," Amber said in a gentle voice.

"Cora's not going to do squat," Amaltheia broke in. "She needs those beans. In fact, everybody here has a stake in that crop."

"The summer people, you mean. They're welcome to leave, and good riddance," Amanda said.

Amaltheia remarked, "You know, there was never any drama around here till they showed up. Now we're as bad as Castle Rock, or even Derry."

Amanda rolled her eyes. "We are not anywhere near as bad as Derry. I swear, Amie, you exaggerate everything." She leaned over to Brigid like a conspirator. "We're having a barn dance this Saturday. You should come."

"Carl's already asked Alexis," said Amaltheia in an overly helpful voice. "She already said yes."

"First I've heard of it."

"Oh, come on, Brigid," said Amanda. "You know you'd let her go, anyway."

"Look, leave me a few remaining shreds of dignity, and let me handle my daughter myself, OK?"

Amaltheia grinned at Amanda. "Brigid could bring that new feller, too. The big one with all that hair."

"Tiny," said Amber.

Brigid frowned. "I hate that name."

Now the three women looked at Brigid with the sideways glances women give one another when some unspoken question has been answered, and something conclusive has been understood.

"Oh, I think Brigid here could persuade him to come," Amaltheia said, finally.

Amanda added, "Bet he's a pert dancer."

"There might not be any water in that well, ladies," Brigid said. "He hasn't been by today at all. Heard he was with the dwarves down at Ruby's."

"Grandma Lucas wouldn't want to hear you call her place that," Amaltheia said with a wicked grin.

Brigid grinned right back. "Well, it's going to be, sooner or later. Mostly is, for all practical purposes now."

"By the way," Amaltheia went on, "You know, ever since Old Man Johnson died back in November, Father Jarlais has been without a sexton."

"Really." Brigid gave a slight frown at the mention of the priest's name.

Amaltheia continued, as if spelling something out to a particularly slow child. "The sexton lives in the rectory."

Amanda chimed in, "In the carriage house, if you want to get technical."

"No one but you wants to get technical, sister dear," Amaltheia shot back.

Amber looked up and said in a faraway tone, "I can't decide if Anton's the King of Pentacles or the Nine of Cups."

"Pentacles, definitely," said Amanda.

"Hm," Amber said with a little pout. "Maybe he has a twin somewhere who's the Nine of Cups."

Brigid was genuinely flustered now. "Well, far as I know, Anton's settled in with Leroy and the rest of them."

"Have you ever been over there, sweetheart?" Amaltheia asked. "One of 'em, Grunty, I don't know, hurt his hand and didn't want to go to Doc Whale."

"I don't blame him," Amanda said. "Whale's a drunk."

Amber said, "That's not fair. He's going to AA now."

"Once a drunk, always a drunk. At least Whale admits it," Amanda replied.

Amber still wasn't satisfied. "That's the _point_ of AA, Amanda."

Amaltheia tried to wrest control of the conversation. "Anyway, I sat on the front porch and taped up his hand. Only got a glimpse through the picture window. No curtains, of course. It wasn't pretty."

Brigid suppressed a shudder. "Well, there are six men living in one ranch house. Seven now. And no housekeeper."

"You know, Amaltheia's got a point," Amanda said. "Talk to Fr. Jarlais, Brigid. See if he can work something out."

Amaltheia pulled three twenties from her beaded purse, which seventy or eighty years ago, had probably been carried to the Boston Opera by some doyenne, and laid the money on the table. "Thank you, Amanda dear, for acknowledging that I do have ideas once in awhile."

"Oh, come off your high horse," Amanda said. "Of course you do."

"Brigid, keep the change. Amber and me, we're going over to the feed store. Got to get some bag balm."

"I'll meet you over there in a while," said Amanda. "Wait for me." To Brigid she said, "This cool, damp weather makes the goats' udders kind of chapped."

"Hasn't been a problem for my goats," Brigid said, but it was too late, as the two women were already halfway out the door.

Amanda poured herself some more coffee before saying, "You and I, Brigid, we're kind of in different worlds. There are things you know that I don't. But there's a lot I know that you don't, either. So what exactly is it that you wanted to ask me?"

The coffee sippers had mostly left, and none of the few hangers-on sat within earshot, but Brigid looked around anyway before speaking. "As you know, ever since I left home, I've done what I can. Moved from town to town, helped with the sowing and the reaping, blessed the corn and the vine. And when I found one of those few special places, I'd stay awhile. But sooner or later, it was always time to move on. I can't shake this sense, though, that maybe my time to bless the fields has come to an end."

"That's the usual way of women," Amanda said in a dry tone. "Even those who serve the Lady."

"But I don't want to break the rules. Problem is, I don't know what the rules are anymore. That's why I need your help."

"There aren't any rules," Amanda said. "Not like that. There are just the ways in which things work. So what if Anton's field was the last one you blessed?"

"I've never done anything else," Brigid whispered.

Amanda said, "Well, well. And Alexis is probably going to be your last baby."

"First, last, and only."

"There's a last time for everything, Brigid. Look, as long as you laid in the fields, you couldn't tie yourself to any one man. But once you go through the change of life, you don't lie in the fields any longer. Maybe now it's time for something else. The change isn't the end, even though a lot of women think so. It's a beginning.

"Look, you've told me your story, where you came from. By anyone's standards, it's crazy. But I've lived up at Grey Hill my whole life, and seen a lot of things you'd call crazy. This place has been odd from the get-go. My mother knew it. That's why she picked it out. It's not complicated, Brigid. If you want him, try for him."

Brigid sighed. "It's just that I haven't felt this unsure in a very long time."

"You probably haven't felt this way about a man in a very long time. If ever."

"That's true. And what's more, the magic's wearing off. I can feel it."

Amanda gave Brigid a look full of sympathy. "What, you want my permission? You know what's going to happen now. You've known since the start."

"I'm free, aren't I?"

"Yes," Amanda said. "You are." She pinned her shawl with a scrolled silver brooch, and picked up her purse to leave. Only the Grey sisters could pull off that look, as if they'd raided the parlor of a Victorian mansion and walked out decked in antimacassars, velvets and piano shawls.

As if Amanda couldn't resist delivering one more missive, she leaned over to Brigid and said in a soft voice, "There are no guarantees."

"That's exactly what another old woman said to me, a very long time ago."

Amanda laughed too, young and bright despite her years. "Us old women, we stick together. Remember, barn dance. Saturday."

( _continued_ )


	5. Land of the Giants

**Chapter 5: Land of the Giants**

Long ago, when the stars were not fixed in the sky as they are today, two stars fell in love. A yellow dwarf, bright and hot, looked across the galaxies at a gas giant of deepest green, and yearned. Now in those days many tunnels twisted through the heavens, linking space and time. Portals opened hither and yon, and it just so happened that one yawned near the yellow dwarf, and into it the love-struck star fell. Billions of light-years the star traveled in an instant. Soon after, the yellow star and the green merged in a gigantic display of heat and light that would be seen for millions of years to come.

The fruit of their union was the First Giant.

The stars had never seen a child before, and didn't know what to do with one. The Ancients, who in the beginning had plucked the stars from the vast emptiness of the World-Egg and set them in the heavens, had no idea either. After the Ancients marveled, they created an enormous disk, wide beyond telling, to keep the First Giant from falling into the abyss between the galaxies. Then the Ancients fixed the stars in their courses and blocked up the pathways by which the stars could travel to meet one another.

Most of them, that is.

The First Giant wandered on that great plain, careful not to fall off the edge into the abyss beyond, but without companionship or succor soon died of loneliness. The stars shed great silvery tears at this sad event, and as they rained down on the First Giant's body, from that great and cavernous chest a tree began to grow.

Thus the World Ash Tree came into being.

Its great trunk grew star-ward from the once-flat plain. Its gigantic roots spread through the ground, folding the land into mountains, caverns, and valleys. Down into the darkness its tap-roots thrust, anchoring it fast. Where root met trunk, falling leaves and rotting bark formed thick black soil. And from the rot around the base of the World Ash Tree crawled the First People, known as the Giants.

The land and the World Ash gave the Giants whatever they needed to work the stone and till the soil. In their bones they knew the Green Lady, and honored her. Their babies came as twin-lings all, two boys or two girls.

The stars wheeled around the axis of the world time and again. Over the centuries the Giants replaced their stone huts with houses, their coarse woven tunics with linens fine. Gold and other metals they panned from the great rivers which criss-crossed the land, but they did not use them for trade. Instead, the Giants formed spangles to decorate their robes, and coronets for their long flowing hair. Gold and silver they admired for their beauty alone.

Every plant of the land was known to them for medicine or food. Since they neither hunted nor imprisoned the animals, no creatures feared them. The great river buffalo shared their milk, and from their carcasses the Giants harvested leather for belts and shoes. From their bones came sharp needles for skilled Giant embroiderers. The land was rich, and those who worked it were amply rewarded. The very young, the old, the sick were cared for.

If by some sad chance a Giant fell to earth and died alone, unburied, after time the mortal remains would turn to stone. But if that Giant were laid to rest in earth, from the great chest of that Giant's body would grow a massive tree, in honor of the First Giant and the sprouting of the World Ash.

Thus the Giants grew, prospered, and died. However, plums which hang too low on the tree get plucked first. The Ancients had closed all the passageways between the worlds, or so they thought, but a few remained. For even an Ancient may overlook something now and then.

Now there was another realm, the Land without Starlight, where the stars never shone like glowing jewels, but instead hung in great black clots, and pumped out deadly rays which no eye could see. There the Fairy Lurline and her band darted to and fro like bees, sipping colorless rays of power from these invisible stars.

Lurline's dearest friend was Reul Ghorm, also called the Blue Star, and she was second only in beauty and power to Lurline herself. Even though Lurline pressed Reul Ghorm to her bosom, Reul Ghorm was not content with love. She grew ambitious and sought Lurline's overthrow.

Lurline proved the stronger, though. Because she loved Reul Ghorm, she did not slay her. Instead, the Blue Star and her band of rebels were sentenced to drift forever helpless in the stellar winds.

Reul Ghorm was a clever fairy, and after a long span of years, she and her followers came upon one of the star-passages. At once, Reul Ghorm recognized the portal for what it was, and led her band through it.

Long did Lurline grieve for her old companion and enemy. Eventually Lurline and her fairies were also swept into one of the tunnels between the worlds, and found themselves in a new land entirely. But that is a story for another day.

After a tortuous and twisted journey, Reul Ghorm and her band came to the land of the Giants. The glowing dust of the world-tunnels clung to their wings, frocks, and hair. Reul Ghorm realized the dust's power, and bade her fairies brush it off and carefully save it. Then she looked out over the rich fertile plains and forests of Giant-land, and began to scheme.

The fairies might salvage the portal-dust all they could, but even with all their arts they could not make more. One day, though, Reul Ghorm watched the Giant women scatter rich black compost over the fields. "Why do you do that?" she asked one.

"The nourishment is drawn up into the plants, and gives them what they need to grow," the Giant woman explained.

In that instant, an idea came to the clever Reul Ghorm.

Rays of dark starlight were weak in this world, which meant that the fairies were small in strength. Without more star-dust, Reul Ghorm could not compel the Giants to do her bidding, so instead she used soft words and insinuating arguments. True, she told them, their stone houses were impressive and their orchards fair. But there was so much more they could have, more to venture. Gold wasn't simply for decoration, either. It could serve as treasure, too. If they amassed enough of it, beings from all the realms would flock to do their bidding.

Instead of low stone houses with simple gardens, they could build castles and huge plantations. And instead of growing only flax and herbs and potatoes (this said with just the right touch of scorn and toss of the head), they might grow something else, a crop which might make them the most powerful beings in all of the realms which the Ancients had created.

So, after long deliberation, the Giants agreed, and Reul Ghorm enchanted the giants with what little magic she had. The spell sank deep into the very seeds of life within the Giants' bodies, so that its effects would pass on to all the giant-lings as well. But clever plans often fray when brought from mind to life. The magic beans grew, yes, but the Giants made poor guardians of the doors which opened far and wide between the worlds, and not all which passed through those portals were fair. Humans entered the land, too, and dragons; questing beasts and dark, slimy things which slunk into muddy caverns.

To Reul Ghorm's dismay, the Giants stopped listening to the fairies. They, not the fairies, were the masters of all the lands. What did they need fairies for? Reul Ghorm was vexed, but magic set in motion is hard to contain. So Reul Ghorm bided her time, grew in strength, and as she waited, she came up with a plan.

"Magic beans are impractical," Reul Ghorm said to her most loyal fairies. "Weather and blights destroy them. And when we do get a crop, the quality is unpredictable. Further, these arrogant Giants are proving too hard to control."

It was time to craft a new race, one which would serve the fairies without question, one which could supply the fairies with what they needed with the cold accuracy of metal on stone. For breeding star-dust was crude. It would be far more efficient to manufacture it. But something had to be done about the Giants.

From the great disc of the Enchanted Land, Reul Ghorm caused a smaller one to be raised up. On it rested a portion of the Giants' land, and the fairies set it high in the clouds and fixed it to the earth with a massive stalk, many yards round. Upon the stalk they set enchantments, so that no human or other creature could scale it by ordinary means.

"It is for your own good," Reul Ghorm told the Giants. "Humans cover the face of the world now like a filthy mange, and this will keep you safe from them."

The Giants grumbled, but agreed. For the crops had been good, the beans full of the glittering dust which ruled the stars, and the fairies had grown strong on it. And Humans were indeed a plague, even if they were small as the rodents which ran around the kitchen of a poorly-kept castle.

The beans, though, the beans did not take well to the new Giant-land in the clouds, and once again the fairies grew anxious for a source of star-dust. Reul Ghorm reassured her flock that soon her new race would be perfected, the one which would give them endless troves of what they now called fairy-dust, as if they themselves had invented it. But these things took time.

"Time," one pert fairy said to Reul Ghorm, "is precisely what we do not have."

"Even that we shall, soon enough," Reul Ghorm answered, and with that cryptic utterance she resumed her cunning arts deep beneath the earth. The broken, failed results of her experiments crept about the dark places, the bogs, the fens, and when they bred with Humans, their spawn formed the ranks of the Ogres.

Finally Reul Ghorm revealed to her band the fruits of her labor. From the dust-between-the-stars she had finally created a working simulacrum of the World-Egg, and from it drew forth the first dwarf. More eggs followed, hundreds of them, to produce a race who only quarreled with each other and never with their appointed tasks. They dug, they tunneled, they mined, they made machines, and from those machines poured the fairies' lifeline.

"Whatever shall we do about these Giants?" Reul Ghorm mused, but she did not raise her wand to strike. Instead, upon the Giants she laid a spell, and into the Giants' life-germ this magic also crept. The Giants would still have their baby-os, two for each birth. But now only one in three births would yield giantesses.

As it dawned upon the Giants what had happened to them, they raised their voices in lamentation. But if the Giants had been betrayed by the fairies and then forgotten, the Green Lady forsook them not, for long had they served and honored her. She took pity on them, and through dreams and portents she whispered to the Giantesses how they might save their race, if only for a time.

Households of brothers of one family would now marry twin sisters of another, and all would dwell together in the brothers' castle of stone. The mothers of a castle would take their daughters to visit a castle of brothers, as in the old days. But now, if the daughters liked the brothers, the daughters would stay and live there as wives to all, and bear giant-lings to all.

Prompted by the Lady, the Giantesses insisted that who they married would be their choice. They would be the ones, with their mothers, to approach the Giants. They would be the ones to court. The Giantesses would pick. And there would be no fighting over Giantesses in the land.

So over the generations, the Giants followed this path and lived in harmony. Fathers taught sons, sons taught brothers the ways of wooing the Giant women. Their hearths still blazed, their orchards bloomed, and the fairy beans kept growing, that enchanted crop with its sweet song which only Giants and fairies could hear.

In every Giant household, all gathered around the great hearths, the giant-lings loving their mothers and fathers all, regardless of who had sired or borne them. Even as the Giants' numbers diminished, they managed to live and love.

Very few beans now contained the full measure of magic. Sometimes scores of years went by and none which opened portals were harvested. Those that did grew more valuable than gold, since Giant beans still made the most reliable passages between the worlds. For it is the way of both Giant and Human alike that the rarer something is, the greater its price.

Human kings gave half their treasure just to purchase one bean, and more gold amassed in Giant storehouses than the remaining Giants would ever spend. Through the portals, Human kings sent soldiers and sorcerers to conquer other lands. Humans spread through all the worlds, gaining in might and power, if not in wisdom or beauty of spirit. And talk grew among the Humans: why trade for that which they could take?

So Human mages devised poisons which could kill Giants with a single scratch. Sorcerers crafted charms to slip through the defenses of the great bean-stalk which connected Giant-land to the rest of the realms.

The Human-Giant wars had begun.

Terrible battles raged over Giant-land as the animals fled and the fields were burned or salted. Every time the Giants shored up their defenses, crafty Humans subverted them. Then, in the most cruel twist of all, the Humans noticed the scarcity of Giant women. So Humans stopped fighting the male Giants directly, and killed the Giantesses first and foremost. The Giants' numbers, already weakened, grew smaller still.

So it went over the long years as the Giants diminished, until only one castle was left. And eventually that castle also fell, but thieving Humans got no beans out of it. For the one remaining Giant destroyed the crop and salted the fields: the last of his kind, Anton, son of his fathers Alonzo and Albion, now of Storybrooke, Maine.

( _continued_ )


	6. The Grower and the Grown

**Chapter** **6** **:** **The Grower and the Grown**

The next evening, while the Grey Sisters and Brigid milked their goats on their own farmsteads, Anton leaned on his hoe, gazing out over the newly-turned bean field. Around him, the dwarves tied up the last of a long lattice-work of trellis for the long vines that were to come.

Leroy scraped dirt off his boots with a hoe, and looked crosswise at Anton. "We're behind schedule. Would've gotten more done if we hadn't spent half a day yesterday at Granny's."

"Who had to get into an arm-wrestling match?" Anton replied in a mild voice.

The rest kept cleaning their own shoes as they watched Anton and Leroy out of the corners of their eyes. Ignoring Anton's remark, Leroy said, "Sunrise tomorrow, right? Chop-chop."

"I don't think so," said Anton. "Got a few things to do early in the morning."

Now the dwarves stood motionless, openly staring. The moment was broken by the crunch of tires on gravel.

Anton looked up, heart racing in expectation. But it was just David Nolan, pulling his pickup truck over onto the shoulder, come to give the dwarves a lift home.

"OK, brothers," Leroy said. "Heigh-ho and homeward bound."

When Anton didn't move, Leroy looked over his shoulder, openly scowling now. "Tiny, you need a special invitation?"

Evening spread over the piney-wood hills like a purple shawl over dark-green shoulders. The smell of the newly-turned earth filled Anton's head like a dizzying perfume. There, in the very center of the field where Anton and Brigid had lain two nights before, a small sprinkle of faint green had already broken through the black ground. Anton knew what would come next, even if the dwarves didn't. The green shoots would spread out over a quarter-acre or so, each new plant growing out of the one he and Brigid had so carefully sown.

Anton shook his head. "I think I'll just stay here for a little while."

David Nolan beeped the Ford's horn, three insistent little toots.

"Long walk back to town," Happy remarked as he picked up his tools. "Want me to take that hoe for you?"

"Sure," Anton said. "Thanks a lot. Leave the hammer, though."

Leroy, still scowling, herded the rest of the dwarves through the shimmering protective barrier which shielded the bean field from casual observers. With a sinking heart, Anton watched the dwarves go. Brigid could drive right by and not see the field. Nor see him, either.

It was good the dwarves were gone, though. Anton had never bound the wights of the field before, and didn't want to shame himself if he made a mistake. As he untied his hair, a mischievous breeze lifted the long curly locks as if it wanted to play with them.

With four stakes Anton formed the corners of a square around the field's perimeter. From his pocket he took a ball of thick sisal cordage and fastened the string to the stakes. At each corner he had to tie special knots, to lure the good spirits in and fend off the bad ones. His fingers fumbled with the thick cord, and he wished he'd paid more attention when his brothers had sown in years past. He wasn't sure he got all the knots right, but it was too late now. What he'd done so far would have to do. Anton was so intent on finishing up the last twists that he didn't even look up when a truck door slammed.

Probably one of the dwarves had forgotten something. Or Leroy just wanted to deliver a final salvo.

Instead, it was Brigid, walking through the enchanted barrier as if it wasn't even there. "Hey, Anton."

In surprise Anton let the twine fall to earth. "You saw me? From the road?"

"Sure. I wouldn't have stopped otherwise."

 _So much for th_ _e Blue Fairy's_ _cloaking spell._ Anton stood waiting, not wanting to come too close to Brigid for fear of seeming rude, but inside he sang with gladness. Now it was all up to her. Or would have been, had he been back home. But maybe men and women did things differently here in "Main" than giants and giantesses had done in the Enchanted Land. So all he said was, "I was waiting for you to come by. To see them."

To his relief she came over quite close to where he stood rooted in earth as if planted there, and pointed to the dusting of green against black. "That's fast work."

"Back home," he said in a tone which implied that this place wasn't, "they would have been up to here by now."

"Ankle-high in a few nights?"

"They send out these runners, like grass. And grow really fast at first."

She stood close enough that he could smell her fresh scent of hay and barn dust, and her voice came out soft and low. "I didn't stop by just to see the crop."

Now their faces almost touched. "I was waiting for you all afternoon. I thought you'd come after you closed the restaurant."

"Today was my day off. But I hung around all day, doing the books. On the hope that you'd come by."

He had no idea what "doing the books" meant, so he just swept his great arm towards the field, the richly-embroidered sleeve billowing out like a sail in the evening wind. "Those dwarves, they really work."

"Sundays too, eh?"

"You work on Sunday. That's supposed to be the special day around here, right?"

"For some." Before he knew it, she had slipped under his outstretched arm and pulled herself in quite close. "So where's Leroy and company, then?"

"Gone home."

"But not you."

What was she doing now? He flushed as she laced her arms around his waist, pressing herself up against his belly. Over her head, over the sunset-purple trees, one green star shone low in the west, the first one of the evening. Silently, Anton made a wish. Some things are the same in all worlds.

Finally Anton said, "I wanted to stick around." Then he frowned, so that his furry brows joined over his nose. "The dwarves, they think all they need to do is dig and hoe, hoe and dig. They don't get it, about the beans. It's hard to describe. The crop wants company, too, and for someone to be there with them some of the time. Not to just scrape the ground once or twice and then go."

He let his words hang in the air, waiting for her to pick up on his meaning. He had gone as far as he dared.

She knew at once what he meant. Instead of saying anything, she lifted her face towards his and pulled him down to her, so that they met in mid-air for one slow, drawn-out kiss. It went on a long time. Her tongue rolled around softly inside his mouth, back and forth in soft exploration. Then she rested her head on his chest, and his heart pounded like a huge clock set to run twice as fast as it should. He nuzzled her brow and her cheeks, breathing in her sweet-scented hair and skin.

Eventually she moved out of the embrace, her face warm and open. "I don't want a quick go of it either, Anton. I'm past that."

Anton thought he knew what she meant, but wanted to be certain. "So in the fields, it wasn't just..." His voice trailed off, suddenly unsure.

"I didn't know how you'd feel in the cold light of day. But for me, I can say this. Whatever you feel, whatever you decide, that was my last night in the green fields."

"What does that mean?" he asked, the sense of insecurity growing.

"That I'm to serve the Lady in a different way. An ordinary way, as Alex's mom. And as a lover." She drew in a long, deep breath, and all at once Anton saw how hard this was for her. What would have been nothing for a giantess, for her took enormous effort. Finally Brigid said, "Your lover, if you want."

Relief crashed down on him. She must have misunderstood his unspeaking stare, though, because at once she started to stammer. "But of course, you just got here, things are so confusing, it's too much all at once, and what am I thinking? What am I doing, you must think I'm—"

Anton cut off the stream of words with another kiss, a light one this time, right on her busy mouth. Then it was her turn to stare, for he said, simply, "I like you, Brigid. A lot. But I've got nothing to offer you: no castle, no land, no brothers to work it with."

Relief spread through her own face as well. "That's all right. I don't have much, either. And I don't know how it goes with giant-folk, but I have to tell you this, full disclosure and all. I'm not a hundred percent sure at this point, but I don't think there will be any children. Just Alex. I guess her boyfriend Carl, too, because the two of them kind of come as a package deal."

"Not everyone at home had giant-lings, either."

"It's just that there are a lot of women way younger than me, Anton. And you turn heads."

In answer, he drew her in for another kiss. If the first one had carried passion, and the second one tenderness, this one bore nothing but acceptance. They both shivered in the rapidly darkening evening. He was wrapped in his thick robes, but she had only a thin covering of some woven stuff. "You're cold," he said.

"I've got a jacket in the truck."

She didn't move, though, and she probably didn't want to let go any more than he did. He loosened his robe and wrapped it around her, drawing her in. More confident than he'd ever been, he was ready to risk all in boldness. "Brigid, Granny makes this wonderful stuff called 'hot chocolate.' Have you ever had it? Because we could, you know, get some."

"I've had it. But like love, it's one of those pleasures you want to repeat." Then her face fell a bit. "Thing is, I've got to be up early tomorrow for the breakfast crowd, right at five."

 _Oh, no, I should have never tried that_ —

Then she gave him a wide smile. "Look, why don't we take a raincheck till tomorrow evening? I'll get Astrid to cover for me."

He shook his head, baffled. _Raincheck? What did it mean to "cover for someone?"_

She laughed a little, but not in a mean way. "Sorry, Anton. What I meant to say was, I'll pick you up here in the field tomorrow at sunset, then we'll get hot chocolate and more at Granny's."

He drew her close against his body, sheltering her from the night breezes, almost too happy to speak. Then something occurred to him. "How'd you see me from the road?"

She pulled back, face tight and alert now, as the soft edges of her expression hardened. "You mean, that spell I could see right through? Maybe it only works on people who were cursed. You weren't."

"But I couldn't see through it, either."

Brigid frowned and said, "Well, maybe it's because you're from the Enchanted Land, and I'm not. But frankly, Anton, if either Cora or Regina want in that bean field, Mother Superior can no more keep them out than the dwarves can get Ruby to give them more than a passing glance."

A large guffaw of laughter burst out of Anton. "You heard about that, what happened yesterday morning?"

"I have a teenage daughter. Nothing in this town escapes her eyes or ears."

"Poor Happy. Ruby shot him down right in front of everybody. Then when Happy came back to the table with his tail between his legs, Leroy made some weird remark. Something like how Leroy's eggs had gotten fairy dust on them but Happy's hadn't, so that Leroy could have a chance at love but Happy couldn't. I dunno what that was about, because I was looking right at the four fried eggs on Leroy's plate, and they looked fine to me."

Brigid laughed, hard, and Anton reveled in it, even if he didn't get the joke. No matter, he was on a roll now and didn't want to stop. "Then Happy said that just because Ruby didn't want him, that didn't mean no one else did. Leroy snapped back, 'That's not love, you dumbo,' so Happy challenged Leroy to arm-wrestle, to get his honor back. They were a pretty even match, but then the table broke. So I had to kind of sit on Happy till he calmed down."

"Sweet Mary Magdalene with a hand grenade."

"That was nothing, Brigid. You should have seen my brothers and me when we really got going."

"I bet your furniture wasn't a cheap imitation of Mid-Century Modern, either. It was probably more sturdy."

It didn't matter that he hadn't a clue what she was talking about. The hard expression had left her face, and she was smiling, which was all that counted. Still, he mused, "What was that thing about Leroy's eggs, though?"

Brigid rolled her eyes. "Maybe you need to ask Leroy, Anton. Meanwhile, how about a lift home?"

There was nothing Anton wanted more.

( _continued_ )


	7. Hot Chocolate in Town

**Chapter 7: Hot Chocolate in Town**

At the end of the next work-day, the dwarves stared at Brigid as she pulled up next to the bean field and honked her horn. As Anton climbed in, Happy waved and gave them the thumbs-up, which made Bridget chuckle.

Granny's was crowded, so Anton and Brigid ordered their extra-large hot chocolates to go, as well as three double-decker egg salad sandwiches for Anton and a cheeseburger for Brigid. Granny looked them up and down as she prepared their order, but not in an unfriendly way, just curious. By the end of the evening everyone in town would hear about it, of course, but Brigid didn't care.

They took their food to Bloom Park in the Storybrooke town square, snagging one of the picnic tables under the bandshell. The street lamps hadn't yet come on, and the entire park was covered with dusky twilight. A few other couples sat in the park, or strolled down streets lined with mostly-shuttered shops.

The hot drink warmed Brigid's hands, and she snuggled down into her puffy nylon jacket. When Anton got whipped cream on his moustache, Brigid licked it off, which led to a short round of nuzzles and kisses.

As they ate, Brigid said, "You know, Cora's got to know you're here. After all, you're all everyone's talked about recently. Why did she bring you here in the first place?" She reached over and patted Anton's thigh. "Not that I'm complaining."

Anton flushed. "She wants the beans."

"But why grow them for her?"

"I figured if I grew them, I might have some say in how they're used."

She scrutinized him hard. "It was obvious the sprout we planted was magic, Anton. What's your crop going to do, exactly?"

"It's supposed to be a secret," Anton said, looking down into what was left of the whipped cream swirling around in his hot chocolate.

"Oh, great, more secrets."

"Okay, you helped get them going, so you have a right to know. Out of that whole field, we'll get two, maybe three beans that'll let everybody go back home."

Brigid sat, stunned. "You mean, they open doors between worlds?"

"Just long enough for a couple people to jump through."

"So that's what Amanda meant, with her remark about Regina and the Charmings leaving 'like summer people.' Regina, Cora, and a few might get out. But there's no way a handful of beans opening windows for a few seconds are going to work for the rest of the town."

"I dunno," Anton said. "Maybe if a bunch of people got inside a cart, or on-board a ship, they could all go at once."

"Not hundreds, though."

"No, I guess not."

Twilight deepened around the strolling couples. Dr. Hopper walked his Dalmation, Pongo, while a few younger guys laughed and chatted in front of a beaten-up old truck. Brigid gave Anton that scrying look again. "I guess you want to go back home, too. That makes sense."

"No, Brigid, I don't." Then, soft and hushed, he said, "You know I lost my whole family."

"Oh, no. I'm so sorry."

"It's worse than that. We were the last."

"The last?"

"Of the giants. Of all our people."

"Are you sure? It's hard to believe there are no more of you."

"Why not?" Anton said, gloomy. "Everything dies. Why not us?"

Out came the answer she always had for Alex when the questions got too hard. Not that this nostrum would work forever. "I don't know."

"Cora tricked me, Brigid. I'd never seen a giantess, other than my mothers, I mean. But my mothers were old. Since they died when I was really young, I'd never seen a young giantess. I knew about them, though.

"When me and my twin brother got our first growth of beard, Arlo told us about courting, how the giantesses would want to meet your mothers and brothers, see your castle, how it looked, how comfortable it was, if it was set up well for giant-lings. But then the wars came. No one was courting, because travel was too dangerous. It was hardest on Arlo and Aaron, as the oldest. They remembered more of what it was like before our mothers died."

"Anton, I'm so sorry." She rested her hand on his wide curved shoulder, but he went on as if the tale pained him, and he had to disgorge it.

"So after I buried all my brothers, I went back to the castle for the last time and just sat. Too tired to eat anything, too tired even to cry. I sat like that all night. I did some exploring around Giant-Land, but couldn't find anybody. Days went by, then months, years even, I don't know how many. All I knew was, they were gone, and they weren't coming back. I would have given anything to hear Abraham yell out, 'Hey, Tiny, I almost didn't see you, just like that mouse in the corner over there.' Anything."

Brigid shuddered at the thought of giant-sized mice, but only said, "Abraham must have been your twin."

"How'd you guess?"

"Ask Mary Margaret, she'll back me up. Kids fight with the ones they play with."

"Yeah, I guess." Anton had obviously never considered that before. "So one day, this giantess came out of the forest, or what I thought was a giantess, even though she looked a lot more like the women in the human village. The one I visited in the Enchanted Forest. That's what got my brothers killed. Jack - this woman who was one of the ones who killed my brothers - Jack gave me a charm to make me man-sized. There was this girl at the pub, too. A musician. She was nice to me, if you know what I mean."

Brigid did, indeed.

Sadness seemed to wash over him again. "She was sweet, that one. So I, uh, knew a little about Human women. But not enough, I guess."

"You couldn't have known, Anton."

"I should have, though. So anyway, this so-called giantess was kind of thin and stick-like except for, well, up here," and he grabbed his own soft chest. "I thought maybe she had been sick, 'cause a lot of us got sick during the wars. But I'm so stupid, it never even occurred to me to ask why she came alone. No mothers, not even a twin sister. No coat-of-arms on her cloak, to show what castle she came from. Just a blouse open down to here. Yeah, I looked."

"Most men and giants would have."

"Cora told me the one lie I wanted to believe more than anything else, that her sister had died, and that mine was the one castle left. She would live with me in my castle, and we could raise a new crop of brothers. When our sons were old enough, they could scour the land to look for giantesses." Anton sighed again, with the force of a mighty wind.

Brigid took his hand. "You were desperate. You didn't know what to do." Inwardly she thought, _That bitch. That devious bitch from the pit of hell_.

Anton went on. "So I invited her into the castle. Got wine from the cellar and poured her some. She didn't say anything about the mess. There were ceremonies, things you were supposed to say in the right order, songs you were supposed to sing. Arlo and Aaron knew them, but I didn't. I guess they figured there would be plenty of time to teach the rest of us. But then they died, and I never learned them.

"She kept fidgeting, too, like she had somewhere to go. Finally she said, 'I'm hungry. Aren't you going to make something for me to eat?' Then I remembered Argyle saying how the sisters would want to look over your pantries and your root cellars, to make sure you kept everything in order. So I wanted to take her downstairs, to get some potatoes for soup.

"But she wouldn't follow me, said she wasn't going down into any cold, damp cellar. That hurt, because even though the castle was a mess, my cellars were never nasty. When I came back with the potatoes, she had poured me more wine. I was starting to get sad and angry all over again, so I drank it down fast as I could. If this was courting, you could keep it. Then everything went black."

 _Good grief, date-rape drugs in that world, too._ A cold anger flickered through Brigid.

"When Mary Margaret woke me up, I had a splitting headache. I was stuck in that wooden cage. And was, uh, well, shrunk." His shamefaced grin looked too small for his broad face. "I wasn't very nice to Mary Margaret, I'm afraid."

"You're a way better person than me. I'd have been plotting revenge against Cora from the get-go."

"Revenge for what? I always wanted to come to the Human world, even before the last war. Before everything fell apart." He waved his hand at the tiny green park, the tidy brick and frame buildings with their neatly-painted trim, the evening walkers like dark wind-up toys in the lamplight. "Now, here I am."

"Well, not quite. The human world you wanted to see was over in the Enchanted Land, not here. I've lived over the Line for a very long time, and it can be a cruel place."

"It can't be worse than what I'd be going back to. All my people are gone. What's out there that's worse than what I came from? Anyway, the dwarves said that this is supposed to be the land without magic. So you don't have sorceresses or witches or dragons, right?"

"That's hogwash. There was magic in this world long before Regina brought those people here to Storybrooke. How do you think I do what I do? I was touched by the fae a century and a half ago, and it's only now starting to wear off. My guess is that this place here in Maine has been special from the beginning. Maybe even since the beginning of the world.

"Regina didn't make this place, no matter how much she thinks she did. I know, Anton. I've been to other places like this. There aren't many of them left in this world anymore. You plant beans, Anton. That's what you do. I used to lie in the fields, but I also went from town to town across this gods-abandoned land, looking for the special places which remain. And when I found them, I didn't do much of anything. Just raised some goats or bought a cow, made some cheese, grew some herbs, fed a few people. Then I'd move on to the next place, hoping my identification papers would hold up under scrutiny, hoping I didn't wind up in one of their prisons or jails or madhouses. And then I had Alex to worry about, which upped the ante considerably."

She saw the question in his eyes, and answered it before he could get it out. "Seventeen years ago I stayed for awhile someplace very much like this one, only in Southern California. I know you don't know where that is. Here, in Storybrooke, we sit on the shores of one big ocean, the Atlantic. But on the other side of this land there's another one twice as big called the Pacific."

"That's a beautiful name, the Pacific." He said it as if he savored it in his mouth.

"I rested in this place by the Pacific Ocean for a little while, taking care of the chickens and the goats, answering the phone every few days. Then, one evening, I camped on the side of the mountain near a spring with the purest, clearest water you've ever had, water like liquid starlight. The night breezes blew in from the sea, then turned into a wind. Two months later I was throwing up, and that was the first sign in this world of my daughter Alex."

"You weren't kidding about the wind, then."

"Giants have their ways, and we who serve the Green Lady have ours."

"Had our ways," he said, a little morose.

"Well, maybe you can learn some new ones. OK, listen. I have these friends, three sisters, who live on a farm up on Grey Hill, right on the outskirts of town. They're having a dance this Saturday night. Kind of like a spring party."

Before she could go on, he said at once, "Can I go?"

"You beat me to it. That's why I'm asking."

"I want to. The first time I ever saw dancing was in the Human inn, in the village. They'd drunk a lot of ale, though, and knocked a bunch of stuff over."

Brigid could imagine. "Well, this will probably be a bit more orderly. There'll be some fiddlers, and maybe somebody will roll the old piano out to the barn. And a caller, to tell you what steps to do next. Everybody dances in a big circle, or in lines." Seeing his baffled expression, she finished with, "You'll like it. It'll be fun."

The evening sun had gone down behind the gazebo, leaving the small park in shadows. Anton leaned his head back, as if drinking in the night air and Brigid snuggled under his warm arm. As if they both thought of it at the same time, they said, "Well, got an early morning—" and "Tomorrow's another day, isn't it?"

One by one, the street-lamps began to wink on. As they walked down Broad Street to Brigid's truck, he engulfed her hand in his own big paw, and her heart began to trill like the redpolls which fluttered above them, looking for spots to roost for the night.

"You know, that party, um, what about the dwarves? Are they invited?"

"I don't know." Brigid stood under a streetlamp, retrieved her cellphone and flipped it open. "Here, let me call Amanda and find out."

"Nah, it's OK," Anton said. "I work with these guys, eat with them, sleep with them. I think I can go to a party on my own."

"There's also a bit of a complication," Brigid said as she put her phone away. "The Grey Sisters' property straddles the Line. It goes right down the center, I believe, with the yard on the outside and the barn in Storybrooke proper. And you know how the Enchanted Land people avoid the Line."

"Yeah, if they cross it, they wind up like Mr. Clark, who doesn't remember that he's a dwarf. He thinks he's a, what do you call it? Pharmakosist?"

"Pharmacist. A kind of sorcerer, when you come down to it."

"Is crossing the Line really so bad?"

Brigid answered carefully. "I guess it depends on who you were back there, what happened to you. Take Alex's friend Carl. He was a slave, and was starved and beaten. He's not shy about telling anyone, either. So the Storybrooke people who don't want to risk going over the Line avoid Grey Hill Farm. Even Regina won't go there." She squeezed his hand. "I don't think anything will happen to you, though."

"I know it won't," Anton said.

She looked over quickly, surprised and full of concern. "And why is that?"

"Because early this morning I walked out to the town Line, crossed over it, and crossed back. Nothing happened."

"Anton," she said, real anguish in her voice now, "I wish you hadn't done that alone. I could have gone with you. What if you'd lost your memories?"

"But I didn't. And I didn't go back to my original size, either."

Brigid didn't answer at first, just drove in silence for awhile through town, to the dwarves' ranch house. When she pulled up to the driveway, she rested her head on the steering wheel for a few seconds, as if all the steam had been let out of her. "Anton, there are some bad things happening here. There's a time-bomb ticking in this town, and you had the bad luck to land here right in the middle of it."

"Brigid," he said in a soft voice, "It wasn't bad luck at all."

She slid across the bench seat and into his arms, stroking his long loose hair, his face sweetly close. "I don't know if I want Alex or I to be on top of it when it goes off. And not Carl either, or you. So while on one hand I've gotten comfortable here, on the other hand, it's getting kind of crazy. Leaving's crossed my mind, even if Alex is supposed to be in school till May."

"School," he mused. "I've heard of school."

"It's over-rated. But even in Storybrooke, there are laws. Expectations."

"Like washing your hands in a restaurant."

"Yeah, just like that."

A light went on up at the dwarves' house. Leroy leaned his head out the front door, then yelled something about a strange truck down in the driveway.

Brigid said, "OK, you better go now, before I have a bunch of dwarves charging down here wondering what's going on." Still she clung to him, not wanting to let go. Finally she said, "Pick you up at eight on Saturday?" Her mind raced over what Anton had said. He didn't want to go back to the Enchanted Land. And how long would they be able to stay here, with Cora and Regina on the rampage?

Anton nodded, leaning over close. Heart pounding with exhilaration, she kissed him good-night over and over, until his face grew dusky-red in the twilight, and her whole body ached with wanting him.

Even after he got out of the truck, he didn't climb the driveway, though, but just stood there and watched her until she pulled away. It wasn't until he heard the rough call of, "Tiny, that you?" that he trudged up to the small brick house deeply shadowed by the thick gathered pines.

( _continued_ )


	8. Coffee and Cigarettes

**Chapter 8: Coffee and Cigarettes**

A few days later, Brigid walked up the narrow stone path which led to the rectory of St. Isidore the Farmer Catholic church. It was Thursday, and the Bread Basket was closed until noon. Of all the things to do on her morning off, visiting a priest. She followed a trail of broken asphalt shingles to the rear yard of the rectory itself. On the roof, a broken section of gutter hung by a slender piece of wire. Father Jacques Jarlais, hawk-nosed, lean, and a bit past middle-age, stood on a rickety wooden stepladder.

"Need a hand?" Brigid called out. "I'm terrible with heights, but I can hold the base of the ladder for you."

The priest's accent was faintly tinged with Montreal French. "Much obliged. So nice to see you, Brigid my dear."

"Some wind-storm last night, huh?"

"There have been a lot of those lately." Fr. Jarlais's tone implied that some devilry was afoot in Storybrooke, as usual.

"Looks like you could use an extra set of hands around here," Brigid remarked, as he pounded brackets into the soft wood.

"Well, you know, it's hard to get good help."

"It's not easy being the only town in Maine with practically full employment."

Fr. Jarlais laughed, then climbed down from the ladder and stood before Brigid, running a calloused hand through his greying sandy hair. "Coffee?"

"Always."

They sat chatting in the rectory kitchen while Madeleine, the priest's housekeeper, wiped down the stove. Between Madeleine's stocky body and the oversized metal table, the kitchen was crowded. "Pastoral business?" Madeleine asked Fr. Jarlais, smile-wrinkles covering her plump face.

Fr. Jarlais gave a slight nod of the kind long-married couples use to speak volumes to one another. After Madeleine left the kitchen, he turned to Brigid, eyebrows raised.

"It's about Anton," she said.

"Ah."

"Don't give me that look. You have your way of blessing the fields, I have mine."

The priest leaned back in his chair and took a red packet of Du Mauriers from the breast pocket of his denim shirt. "We're colleagues, Brigid, and I keep imploring you to call me Jacques, even though you treat me with callous disregard. Mind if I smoke?" He took one of the unfiltered cigarettes, then held the pack out to Brigid.

She breathed in the strong, pungent tobacco before lighting up. "I picked up this filthy habit back in the 'twenties, in my flapper days."

"I never would have guessed. You don't exactly seem the flapper type."

"You have to promise not to tell Alex."

"We'll cover it under the seal of confession."

"So that still applies to me, does it?"

"Even unto the last moment of the final hour."

Brigid rolled her eyes, laughed, and he did too. "I was at the restaurant early yesterday morning doing some food prep, and Leroy came by, even though it was closed. He wanted a haircut and a beard trim, if you can believe that."

"Maybe he wanted to see Sister Astrid."

"Probably, but she had already left for school. Not that most people send their kids anymore, not since the breaking of the Curse. The whole high school's down to about three kids besides Alex."

Jacques's tone was dry. "Education wasn't much of a priority back in the Enchanted Forest. Now that the Curse has broken, perhaps people don't see the point."

"I warned him that I wasn't safe around a pair of clippers till I got some coffee in me."

"Do much more of that hair-cutting without a license, they'll run you out of town. At a restaurant, especially."

"I'm not stupid, Jacques. I don't do it in the kitchen or anywhere near the food. Anyway, while I made coffee, we got to talking."

Jacques took a long drag on his Du Maurier. "Men reveal to their barbers what they won't tell their confessors."

"Nothing confession-worthy here. But I'm worried about Anton."

"Of course you are."

"It's this honorary dwarf thing."

"So? Anton needs a home. The dwarves welcomed him like a brother."

Brigid tapped her cigarette, impatient. "He's not a dwarf."

"He's not a man, either, or at least hasn't been for the vast majority of his days. Brigid, what's this really about?"

"A few nights ago, Anton and I spent the evening together and talked. Well, mostly talked."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"Then I drove him back to Dwarf Hollow, which was apparently up in arms because Anton was out and about after dark. Leroy took it upon himself to give Anton 'the talk.' I think Granny must have phoned the dwarves right after we left the restaurant."

Jacques shrugged, unconcerned. "That's life in a small town."

"You're telling me. So Leroy laid it on him, all that 'dwarves can't love' nonsense, and that if Anton was going to be a dwarf, he had to put that aside. Leroy no doubt thought he was doing me a favor by delivering the message in person. Oh, listen to me. I'm only speaking in a civilized way because I'm in the competition's kitchen."

"I'm not your competitor, Brigid. Maybe if you stopped thinking of me that way, we could put our heads together. Perhaps what Leroy says is true, in a sense. English is such a bad word for talking about love. There's _agape_ , the love of man for God. _Caritas_ is self-sacrificing and generous. _Philos_ loves all like a brother. You can't deny the dwarves have that for one another, and they've extended it to Anton. Then there's _eros,_ and Happy seems to have that part down pat." Jacques chuckled.

Brigid protested, "Excuse me, Jacques, but I don't see it that way. You take love and cut it into tiny little pieces with all these words, then scatter the pieces around like fragments of broken glass. What if someone had all those together? Selfless generosity and affection, family loyalty and desire?"

"We'd call it 'true love,' then."

"I think that's what Leroy wanted to have with Astrid. But he still denies it. He told Anton that even though what he had with Astrid felt like love, it wasn't."

Jacques sat there, sipping coffee in between drags on his cigarette, waiting.

"I just don't want Anton to get the wrong idea. Anyway, according to Leroy, Anton left the dwarves' house yesterday morning displeased. And no, he didn't come by to see me or tell me. I heard it from Leroy."

"If he didn't come by to tell you himself, then why are you worried about his being upset?"

Brigid jammed her cigarette into the ashtray. "My God, Jacques. Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Sounds like you have to spell it out to yourself."

"Can I have some more coffee?"

Jacques waved his hand towards the coffee maker.

"Some for you?"

"You don't have to wait on me in my own kitchen, Brigid." A foxy glint came into Jacque's eye. "By the way, Anton told me a good deal of this, before Mass this morning."

"So you just let me sit here, rattling on like a screen door flapping in the wind. What happened?"

"He was walking by on his way to the fields and heard me chanting the Mass, so he came on in. He said he liked the singing." Jacques smiled, proud of his light, fine tenor. "You know what they say, 'He who sings prays twice.' Oh, stop frowning like that. He didn't ask for instruction, if that's what you're worried about."

Brigid tried to keep the coldness out of her voice. "He has the right to choose his own life, just as Leroy does. Even if Leroy doesn't think so."

"We always have a choice."

"Spare me the nostrums. Jacques, doesn't it strike you as odd that both the dwarves and Astrid's order push the same line?"

"Why is that surprising, Brigid? After all, they were supposed to be nuns." His tone said, _Make of that what you will._

"Jacques, exactly what do you know about Astrid's order?"

"It doesn't sound like it's Astrid's order anymore. After all, she's living over the restaurant now, isn't she?"

"And so much for the better. But Mother Superior and what's left of the sisters, who are they, really?"

"Besides fairies, you mean?" Jacques leaned over, as if worried that the walls had ears. "All I can say is this. I wrote the bishop in Portland, and he doesn't recognize them."

"All you can say, or all you will say?"

Jacques didn't answer.

"Look, Jacques, there's no Catholic like a lapsed Catholic. I know how orders work. They answer to Rome, and the local ordinary gives them permission, or doesn't. He can throw them out any time. So who do the sisters answer to in Rome?"

"I did call someone in the Vatican just last month. Nobody's ever heard of them."

"Damn it, I knew it. So why do you put up with them?"

"You see any purple around here? I'm not a bishop. They teach at the school, what's left of it. They volunteer at the hospital, walk abandoned dogs at the animal shelter. They run that annual arts and crafts fair which everybody loves."

"Regular saints, I know. But I can tell by your face you're not totally happy either."

"I knew something was unusual from the beginning," Jacques said. "I drove up to the convent, offered to do weekly confessions for them on Friday or Saturday. Or monthly, if they preferred. But Mother Superior fixed me with this beady blue eye and said that they had no need for a confessor. They handled it Irish-style, themselves."

"Irish-style? I'm Irish. Never heard of that."

"Far before your time, Brigid. Individual confession was started by the Irish. Holy man or woman, priest or layman, it didn't matter, because in a sense it was like an early form of counseling. And instead of gruesome public penances, it focused on interior amendments, personal prayer."

"Five Hail Marys, and see you next week."

"Such bitterness, Brigid. Are you sure the Green Lady has as strong a hold on you as you think?"

"Sorry, Jacques. Mostly it seems like such a sham."

"And mostly it is. It wasn't just confession, either. They never asked me for the Blessed Sacrament in their chapel. If someone else says Mass for them, I don't know about it. Or maybe they say Mass for themselves. Some nuns do, you know."

"So Astrid was in some kind of cult. One that preached the same 'no love' thing as the dwarves."

"What, you're more of a rigorist than the Pope, now?" Jacques' voice was serious but his eyes twinkled. "I suspect under that pagan exterior you're still a daughter of the Church. Oh, relax, Brigid, no insult intended. Seriously, though, just because the sisters comprise some variety of non-Catholic order doesn't mean they're a cult."

"Their leader told Astrid that she couldn't be with Leroy."

"That's not exactly how it happened, Brigid. Leroy lied to Astrid at the last Miner's Day, rather publicly, and nobody likes being lied to. Look, we're on the same side here. But there are men and women who don't experience ordinary human love of the kind Sister Astrid expected. Some lapse into bitter loneliness. Others are 'eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven's sake.' I don't know which Leroy is. He has to find that out for himself."

"He has to find that out free of lies and misinformation," Brigid said, indignant. "Because I don't think it's fair to Leroy, or Anton for that matter. I think Leroy's pushing his own problems onto him."

"Anyway, Brigid, there's one point you're completely overlooking. Astrid, who was Nova in the Enchanted Land, just woke up in the persona of a nun. She didn't choose to be one."

"Neither did many in the old country. Convents were where you stuck extra daughters, or wayward ones."

Jacques fixed her with a critical eye. "Sometimes an excessively long lifespan can breed cynicism, rather than perspective. The modern understanding is that vows have to be freely chosen to be binding."

"Maybe you need to tell this to Astrid and her friends, not me. And I think Leroy's biggest obstacle is between his ears, not in his nature. However, when you think of it, both stories grow from the lips of the same teller."

Neither spoke the Blue Fairy's name, although it hung between them in the silence as their stubby cigarettes burned to ash, and the coffee in their cups grew cold.

Jacques was suddenly all business. "All right, I think I understand. You don't want Leroy to fix the idea in Anton's head that dwarves can't love, because that might mean Anton, as an honorary dwarf, would come to believe that he couldn't love you."

Brigid felt the blood rush to her face. "Busted."

"Well, the heart wants what it wants. Do you care about this because it would diminish Anton to think he couldn't love, or because you might not be the one whom Anton may come to love?"

"OK, I see this corner you're trying to paint me in."

"It's not a trap, Brigid," Jacques said gently. "It's an important distinction."

Brigid looked around the tidy, spotless kitchen, the embroidered dish towels hanging on the rack, the cheerful painted stencils which bordered the window and door. Madeleine was renowned for her skills with the needle and brush. "Says the man whose own little love nest is well-feathered."

If the blow hurt, Jacques didn't show it.

"OK, I'll play along," Brigid said, a bit deflated now. "I know you want me to say that yes, I'm completely disinterested and thinking only of what's best for Anton. _Caritas_ , right? That wouldn't be true. Would I feel equally happy if Anton didn't listen to Leroy, but then took up with someone else instead? I'm not going to lie to you, I'd hate it. I'm not disinterested. And yes, it's about me."

"Good," he said. "Now we can get someplace."

"You need some help around here. Oh, not on the inside, it's obvious Madeleine has that covered. But the fences, the roof, and your windows aren't going to last another winter. Nor would a vegetable garden hurt."

Jacques laughed. "Madeleine isn't much interested in gardening. And I kill plants just by looking at them."

"There you go. The carriage house out back—"

"Sits vacant since Mr. Johnson passed, God rest his soul. Sexton and caretaker all in one, just about impossible to replace."

"Anton could do it."

Instead of answering, Jacques shook out another cigarette and offered it to Brigid.

"I shouldn't. Two in one day. My daughter would kill me if she knew."

Jacques lit up and took in a deep draw, then exhaled with a sigh. "Ah, coffee and cigarettes do make life worth living."

"You're such a bad influence on me, Jacques. I only smoke when I come to visit you. So, would you mind speaking to Anton?"

"I'm two steps ahead of you, Brigid. Anton and I talked this morning, right after Mass. No sooner had I bid good-bye to the five or six old ladies who show up daily, Anton was down on his knees in the back garden, running his fingers through the dirt like it was a beautiful woman's hair, telling me exactly what I needed to grow an exceptionally fine crop of potatoes. Of course I offered him the job. He's to start tomorrow. At least try to act surprised when he tells you."

"Jacques, I don't know what to say."

"It was nothing, Brigid. It was obvious that Anton was looking for a face-saving way 'out,' one which would give everyone some room to maneuver." He fixed her with a stern glance. "Not every problem needs to be hit with a bigger hammer. Often a little finesse does just fine."

Brigid chose to ignore Jacques's veiled rebuke. "Do you still have some of Jake Johnson's things, you know, like overalls, boots, shirts? I think Jake and Anton were about the same size. I love Anton's robes, but—"

"They're sadly in need of repair, I agree. And I don't know what kind of metal that is on the embellishments, but it's probably best to safeguard it."

Brigid stood to go. This meeting had gone better than she ever could have imagined. "Jacques, you're wonderful. I'd kiss you if Madeleine weren't right outside the door listening to us."

He sighed, but with an undercurrent of laughter. "It's a terrible habit. After all these years I despair of breaking her of it. Fortunately, she has priestly rectitude when it comes to keeping a confidence."

Brigid stubbed out what was left of her cigarette even though it had already gone cold, and was about to rinse her coffee cup when Jacques added, "Also, I've extended Anton an invitation to come to group."

"I thought you weren't supposed to talk about group."

"It's not exactly a secret, seeing as meeting times are posted on the bulletin boards both here and at First Methodist. Or that Victor Whale and I started it after the Curse broke, when we all found out who we were, who we had been. Some of us are still trying to come to grips with it."

"Anton wasn't cursed, though."

"But he is still not of this world."

"I hope that changes," Brigid said, as she headed for the door. "Come by the restaurant sometime, Jacques. On the house. I'd say you've earned it."

( _continued_ )


	9. Barn Dance

**Chapter 9: Barn Dance**

Saturday evening settled across Storybrooke's pine-ridged hills, bringing with it the balmy air of spring. When Brigid pulled up to the dwarves' driveway, there was Leroy, breaking up a pine stump with an ax.

As Brigid got out, the corners of Leroy's mouth twitched upwards for a brief second: his version of a warm, winning smile. "You're here for Tiny, I guess."

Earlier that day, Amanda had phoned Brigid, her voice saturated with such conspiratorial energy that Brigid could almost see Amanda's grin over the telephone. "I basically invited the whole town. Amber and Amaltheia put up posters. And I 'specially made it a point to phone those dwarves."

Now, clad in mud-splattered wellies and dungarees, Leroy didn't look like he was going anywhere. Nonetheless, Brigid thought it might be worthwhile to ask. "So, will we see you at the Greys this evening?"

"Some of us got a lot of work to do around the place." Even so, his eyebrows flicked upwards like the corners of his mouth. "Maybe."

"Better get there by eight, or there might not be much food left." Two macaroni-and-cheese casseroles in buffet-size trays rested in the back of the pick-up truck. Alongside were four loaves of wheat bread, three of rye, two pounds of fresh butter, and one of Brigid's signature full-sheet lemon cakes. Still, Brigid had agonized over whether it would be enough.

Leroy stuck his head up to the passenger window and sniffed. "That your mac-and-cheese?"

"The very same. Hey, Leroy, maybe if you get a few of your brothers down here, this stump would go faster, and you could get out the door sooner."

"What, you're gonna tell a dwarf how to organize a work crew?"

"Wouldn't dream of it. You mind if I toddle on up to get Anton?"

Leroy grunted and gestured to the house with his ax, then resumed chopping. Brigid got out of the truck, grimacing at the mud sticking to her leather flats. Fortunately, she didn't need to navigate the steep, slick driveway, because Anton was already carefully picking his way down.

As soon as Anton got into the truck, he fixed her with a mischievous look, boyish and endearing. "I have a surprise."

Brigid put the truck in gear and turned around carefully, trying not to splash Leroy. "Do you, now?"

"I got a job at the rectory."

It took a great effort to suppress her grin. "Well, imagine that."

"It'll be great. Fr. Jacques wants me to give him some pointers about his garden." Then, looking sideways at her, he said, "It's going to be a little bit harder to make things grow well. He doesn't follow the old ways, you know."

"No, of course not. He's a priest of the Man Jesus."

"I'm moving in tomorrow, and I think I'm going to like living over there. This nice woman Madeleine keeps house for him, and she makes the best breakfasts: boiled oats, scrambled eggs, and 'cause yesterday was my first day on the job, she fried some donuts. A lot of donuts." He grinned, appreciative. "And she didn't care about seconds or thirds, either. She complained that Fr. Jacques never eats enough, and it was good to have a man with a hearty appetite to cook for again."

"Better watch her. She'll try to fatten you up."

Anton patted his ample belly. "Well, I always was kind of small."

Brigid laughed. "I like your new duds, by the way."

Anton beamed at that. "Fr. Jacques took me down to the Feed and General. Madeleine needed more oats, too, so I brought her a couple bags, one for the rectory and one for the soup kitchen."

Brigid had heard about how Anton had hoisted a hundred-pound bag of rolled oats on each shoulder, then carried them to the St. Isidore rectory as easily as if they were day-packs for a summer hike.

"Fr. Jacques said that Mr. Johnson's old overalls were too shabby for something special like tonight, so I bought these trousers and a nice shirt besides. He said that if I was going to a barn dance, I had to wear long sleeves."

Anton's red windowpane-checked cotton shirt was crisply pressed. His black twill trousers were held up by a pair of maroon- and blue-embroidered suspenders. _He really does look fine_ , Brigid thought. "That's right about the shirt. Because sometimes you can work up a sweat, and the ladies don't want to hang onto a wet forearm."

"And Fr. Jacques's teaching me how to play cards."

Brigid looked as askance at him as she could, while still watching the road. "For money? Watch out, he'll skin you alive." When he shot her an alarmed look, she said, "Just a figure of speech."

He draped his arm over her shoulder, and there it rested all the way to Grey Hill Farm.

* * *

When Brigid and Anton arrived at the old farmstead, they were met by a splendid sight. Hundreds of paper bags, each with its own tea candle, lined the yard. As well as lighting up the path around the house to the big old barn, the luminarias marked an odd curved path which cut right through the yard itself, only ending at the brushy scrub-oak clearing which led into the dark woods.

Brigid pulled on Anton's sleeve. "Look, the Line. They've marked the Line."

"Did you tell them, um, about me? You know, what I did last Sunday?"

"No. That's your story to tell, if you want. But I will warn you, people here are very anxious about losing their memories, about having to blend in outside." Brigid cut the engine, but neither of them got out of the truck. "At first it made me angry, and I didn't understand it. Then I came to see that while this world is mine, it's not theirs. They breathed a different air as children, made wishes on strange stars in a different sky. It's not my place to criticize anyone for wanting to go back, or for not seeing this world as home."

Anton leaned over to her, and oh, that's what she wanted, that's what she'd been waiting for, and would have asked for had Leroy not been hacking away at that stump. Anton gave her a soft kiss, and desire was there, yes it was, but what moved her heart was more than desire: the possession in that kiss. Not the kind where you feel like a thing, grabbed and yanked around, to be bent to someone else's will. Brigid when younger and more foolish had accepted kisses like that, but no more. This kiss said, _If you want me, here I am_.

They met across the long front seat for one final sweet, slow kiss that went on a long time. After awhile she opened her eyes and brushed his shirt-front as if she wanted to bare his heart. Then she laid her head on his chest, where his heart pounded like a giant clock.

"Oh, Brigid," he sighed, nuzzling her brow and cheeks.

His skin was salty-sweet, with just a tinge of cologne, exactly the right amount. That had to be another one of Jacques' touches, and amusement ran over her as well as desire.

Her slight laughter broke the rain of kisses. "Hmm?"

"I guess we should go in," Brigid said. "Let's see if we can find a few pairs of hands to help with all this food."

As they clambered out of the truck, a buzz of conversation greeted them. Around the slight hilltop rise the barn came into view, its big doors open wide and blazing with light. Alex ran up to Brigid and hugged her as if they'd been parted for weeks rather than just since that morning, and a troop of teenagers emptied the truck bed in nothing flat.

In Brigid's time as a young, flirty colleen, tables were still called "groaning boards." Even though the ones lined up on the grass outside the Grey Hill Farm barn were of the metal folding kind, had they voices they would have groaned. With uncanny accuracy, the Grey sisters had guessed right for provisioning the good hundred guests who massed around, including a few dozen from Storybrooke.

Most amazing of all, the Maine-worlders and those from Storybrooke mingled and chatted as if they weren't of two worlds at all. _It must be the breaking of the Curse_ , Brigid thought. _Things are changing_.

It used to be that if a Storybrooke person passed by you in the Greys' forest, you saw only shadows. But not now. Still, the Storybrooke folk stayed close to the barn, avoiding the front side of the big gabled house with its treacherous Line.

Archie Hopper found Brigid and gave her a restrained hug, no bodies touching for him, thank you. His Dalmatian Pongo sat at his feet, staring over at the food tables, where a huge warming tray sent up spicy, sage-soaked chicken smells. Beyond the food, Astrid stood with Hester and Tara, all wearing nunnish blue and broad, energetic smiles.

Brigid narrowed her eyes, staring at the three women, hard. Something was weird, wrong even. Then it hit her. Near their feet, each of the women had a single suitcase, as plain and dark as their garb.

 _What the hell?_

Most of the Maine-world guests hailed from Bucksport or Belfast, but a few had come from as far away as Ellsworth. One of the Ellsworth women wouldn't leave Doc Thatcher alone. The Storybrooke veterinarian finally gave in to her blandishments and questions about the town; she'd never heard of it and she'd lived here for five years. Why, she was virtually an old-timer herself. Storybrooke? Where was that?

"It's kind of unincorporated," Doc Thatcher said, literally saved by the dinner bell.

Anton and Brigid ate sprawled on a red-checked oilcloth which served as a picnic blanket. Carl and Alex joined them for a bit, while Sean and Ashley brought Baby Alexandra over, to show how well she could roll over now, onto her back and back to her stomach again. Alex cooed over the baby, tickled her, wanted to know if she could feed her. Ashley laughed and told her that no, Baby Alexa took it straight up from Mom, no additives. Then Kathryn Nolan, no wait, not any longer, it was Kathryn Jacobs now, wandered by with her husband Jim, and the checked picnic cloth barely fit them all.

Then the dwarves showed up.

Down at the bottom of the hill, where the driveway stretched out beneath the trees for a long way, Brigid watched the tail-lights of David Nolan's truck beat a path away from Grey Hill Farm. _So he wasn't going to stay, was he? Just dropping the dwarves off and then high-tailing it out of here._

Mr. Clark joined Amaltheia and Brigid. He didn't live with the dwarves, having crossed over the Line shortly after the Change. He had lost his Enchanted Forest memories and still insisted that he was nothing more than Storybrooke's pharmacist. When Amaltheia offered Mr. Clarke a choice between lemonade or soft cider, he had the temerity to ask for beer.

"Oh, we'll bring out the special punch later," Amaltheia told him. "Strictly herbs and botanicals. You'll love it."

After Amaltheia breezed away, Mr. Clark said to Brigid with a disgruntled expression, "Drugs? Did she just offer me drugs?"

"Nothing the FDA's put on a schedule. Yet."

Flustered and peevish, he changed tack. "I've been meaning to phone you anyway, Mrs. O'Dea."

Brigid looked around for Anton, who with a few other guests was taking the flashlight tour of the wide-spreading gardens. She shouldn't tease the pharmacist, she knew, but it was just too easy. "Why, Mr. Clark, I didn't know you cared."

He couldn't contain the blush which colored his cheeks, and it made his severe expression look even sillier. "Mrs. O'Dea, really. It's about your daughter, Alex. She came into the shop a few days ago, and I just thought you should know."

"Oh, Lord, let me guess. She either bought a pregnancy test, or condoms, right?"

Barely sputtering out the words, Mr. Clark said, "The latter. And I thought you would be more concerned."

Enough of this foolishness. "I'd be more concerned if she hadn't bought them. But you know, Carl's a good young man. Steady worker at the cannery, reliable, always willing to help around the homestead. So if they did decide to get together and make a baby, it wouldn't be the end of the world." Brigid had the pleasure of watching him stalk off, still huffing with righteous indignation.

The fiddlers started to tune. A wide graying man almost as big as Anton wedged himself out of a rusty robin's-egg blue VW Bug, and it was a wonder that he fit in there to start with.

"That's the caller," Amanda said, back from guiding the garden tour. "We usually go with Jesse Bloom, but he's playing in Bangor tonight, so we got Old Jedediah Strong instead. He's pretty good, too, even if he does go kind of fast." And with that, Amanda gave Brigid a glance of such pointed wickedness that for an instant, Brigid herself was shocked. Well, wasn't that a bit of karmic payback for teasing Mr. Clark as she had.

As they walked to the barn, where everyone intending to dance had already arranged themselves into two long facing lines, Amanda turned to Brigid and casually said, "The young folks all brought their sleeping bags. They're going to bed down in the barn for the night, for kind of a party after the party. You and Anton are welcome to stay."

"Amanda, it's been a long time since I slept in a barn."

"Very funny, girl. I already made up the bed for you two in the second-floor guest room, and we've got enough night-shirts and gowns to provision an army. It'll be nice for you and me to sit in our robes in the morning, and jaw over some java. But don't get up too early on my account." Again Amanda sent Brigid that wicked glance.

* * *

Anton picked up contra-dancing right away, paying less attention to the caller's almost-nonsense syllables and more to what everyone else in the line across from him was doing.

 _He's a natural_ , Brigid said to herself. She always messed up, because in a line dance, the people opposite you did, well, the opposite. Anton, though, seemed to have a mirror in his head, because he never got turned around or scooted left when he should have scotched right.

The two of them laughed, gasped, held onto each other and drank Grey Hill's cold, clear spring water from the same tin cup. Then Old Jed called out, "Make four squares with corners four, don't let that filly out the door." Brigid thought about sitting it out, but Anton was on fire now, and so they formed a square of four with Carl and Alex, Doc Thatcher and the Ellsworth woman (the two of them hitting it off nicely, it seemed), and the Nolans, oops, the Jacobs.

After they had danced around their group of eight a few times, Old Jed called for one of those merge things, where everyone shifted over once to form a new square, then once again, and again, until every couple had squared up with every other one. Finally the fiddlers put down their bows, the old piano stopped its rattling tinkle, and Old Jed said, "Don't know 'bout you folks, but calling's thirsty work, and I hear we're about due for some ree-fur-reshments." Everyone clapped and cheered the musicians on, hollering so loudly that the two-hundred-fifty year old oaken barn rafters shook in their notches.

With the help of some of the grand-kids, Amanda and Amaltheia brought out big metal bowls of punch. "I've had this before," Brigid said to Anton, as he speculated over the pale green, watery stuff, with little herbal bits floating in it. "I'd say a cup to start with. Or for you, maybe two. Just pace yourself, see how you feel."

"Is it a kind of green ale?"

"Better. You don't get loopy or leaden, and there's no hangover. Everything just gets a little sharper, brighter."

Guests who were veterans of Grey Hill parties sampled the punch sparingly. Amaltheia and the grand-kids, though, made it a point to sidle up to the Storybrooke visitors and tell them what was what. If they didn't want any punch, there was plenty of lemonade left. Further, the teats of Mother Earth herself would have to run dry before Grey Hill Farms ran out of good spring water.

"Ale was kind of fun," Anton said. "But I don't really need any."

Brigid agreed. "Me either. I'm having fun enough."

The second dance set was a bit shorter, because the musicians had loaded their plates and drunk deeply of Amanda's punch besides. A few musicians stayed in place, though, playing one lazy waltz after another.

Brigid clung to Anton as they moved slowly across the straw-strewn floor. Then they stopped all pretense of dancing, and instead just leaned on each other, rocking back and forth to the slow, plaintive tunes.

Anton lifted Brigid's face gently by the chin. "I've never had so much fun, Brigid. In my life."

She rested her face on his chest. "It's just a country dance." Then she came up for air and said, "By the way, Amanda invited us to crash here tonight."

"Crash?"

"Oh, sorry. Stay here, as guests. She wants to monopolize me in the morning for gossip. Alex, Carl, and the rest of the kids are staying out in the barn."

He said the same thing that was on her mind. "A bed, all to ourselves."

"I know, right?"

She was just about to pillow her head on Anton's chest again, when something caught her eye. Over in the corner of the barn, Astrid and Leroy stood deep in conversation. Astrid seemed all right with it, relaxed even, but Leroy paced a bit, rubbing his hand over his bald head. Then Astrid picked up her dark blue suitcase, gave him a small peck on the cheek, and left the barn.

Amanda came over to the lead fiddler. "Keep playing."

Brigid stopped dancing and said to Anton, "Something's afoot. Let's go see."

* * *

The crowd streamed out of the barn and headed around to the front yard, where the luminarias which marked out the Line still burned. Pulling Anton along, Brigid broke into a trot, trying to catch up with Archie Hopper. The tall psychiatrist loped on ahead, towards a small group massed on the edge of the lawn, too close to the Line for Brigid's comfort.

"Archie, wait," Brigid called out.

"It's OK, Brigid," Archie said, as if he sensed her perplexity. "This has been planned for some time now."

"What's been planned?"

The three nuns stood by the Line, each with a suitcase in hand. Leroy, Happy, and the rest of the dwarves stood a few paces back, talking among themselves. Then Astrid broke from her small group to face Leroy once more. She took his hand, and a look of pain crossed his face.

Now Brigid and Anton were close enough to hear.

"Sister Astrid, don't do this," Leroy said.

"We've been over this, Leroy."

"You'll forget me."

"I won't forget you. I'll remember your story of how you were a dwarf in the Enchanted Forest. And not to embarrass you, but what I won't remember is that night when you left me standing on that hilltop, and told me that you couldn't love me."

"Astrid, I'm so sorry," Leroy whispered.

"I was mad for a long time, Leroy. But I guess the Curse softened the blow, because when it broke and when I woke up to myself, I wasn't mad anymore. I'll remember that you were a guy I really liked, but that a lot of stuff happened, and it didn't work out for us."

"But you're a fair—"

She put up her hand, cutting him off in mid-syllable. "No, I'm not a fairy. I choose not to be a fairy any longer."

"So what are you, just a nun then? Because I'm a dwarf, and I'll always be a dwarf."

"I don't know if I'm a nun or not. Because I didn't get to choose that for myself, either. But if I do decide to stay a nun, it'll be because I want to."

"I didn't get to choose to be a dwarf."

"That's different. Being a nun, like love, involves making a promise. And you can't have someone else choose that for you."

Leroy had nothing to say to that.

Astrid then turned to the small group assembled around her. She held herself straight, a thin blue candle ready to burst into clear flame. "Friends old and new, we take our leave. But it's not the end for us. Instead, it's a new life. Dr. Hopper, thanks for helping us make this decision, and for finding us someplace to go.

"And Brigid," here Astrid reached out her hand, "Thank you, too, for being there when we really needed a place to land. Oh, don't look so sad. We have our phones. We're just going to Los Angeles, not the other side of the world."

Brigid took Astrid's hand, and blinked back tears. "I'm sad because you didn't tell me."

"We couldn't risk it, not with Mother Superior."

Brigid kissed her, and Tara and Hester besides. A sea of bodies, loving hands, and hugs encased the sisters, until everyone had bid their farewells. Finally, Astrid turned to Leroy and held his hand one final time. "You don't have to stay here. You can decide for yourself what to do."

"I know what I have to do," he replied, his own voice thick with emotion. "My duty is to Charming and Snow."

That seemed to settle it, as far as Astrid was concerned. "You can always think of me as your friend." She withdrew her hand to slide on a pair of blue silk gloves against the chilly night. "If you change your mind, come find me."

As if rehearsed, the three women picked up their suitcases, and without looking back, stepped over the Line. They looked about for a few seconds, blinking. From her coat pocket Hester took a flashlight, whose tiny white beam swayed all the way down to where the cars were parked. The women got into an old nineties-era Toyota Corolla, then drove away in the direction of Bucksport, away from Storybrooke.

Leroy turned away, overcome, while the rest of the guests drifted back towards the barn. The sad, sweet cries of the fiddles finally came to a stop.

( _continued_ )


	10. Twelve Steps

**Chapter 10: Twelve Steps**

Underneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the small meeting room in the Storybrooke Methodist Church, twelve people sat in a circle on metal folding chairs. Since the barn dance their numbers had more than doubled. The group which had started with Dr. Victor Whale, Ruby Lucas, Fr. Jacques Jarlais, and two Enchanted-Land women now boasted a record crowd. Soon it would be time to break out more chairs, if things continued like this.

Talk of the nuns' departure had spread through town like wildfire and still smouldered. Lines of loyalty were beginning to form.

Fr. Jarlais stood at the podium. "We have many new people tonight, so we're going to go over how we work. Is that all right?"

Murmurs and nods of agreement rose up, so Jarlais went on. "As you know, Alcoholics Anonymous is a twelve-step program, based first and foremost on honesty. You admit you're an alcoholic, that you have no control over your drinking, and everything flows from that. Some of us have admitted to being alcoholics, too," and here he paused for a few seconds. Everyone knew who they were, and they had another meeting to go to right after this one.

"Although we've modeled our group along the lines of AA, for us it's a bit different. We're here because we've chosen to be honest about who we were in the Enchanted Forest, about what we did, about what was done to us. And like AA, we have twelve steps to follow. You can read them on the brochure on your seat, but the first one is the most important, the step of honesty. And each of us here is ready to help the other take that first crucial step."

The door creaked open, and all eyes turned towards the newcomer, a hugely fat man in rust-colored overalls with long wavy brown hair tied back behind his ears. He swallowed hard as he looked around at the ring of faces, nervous as any other first-timer.

"Hi," he said, trying to swallow his nervousness. "I'm Anton."

"Hi, Anton," everyone said back.

Fr. Jacques had warned him that this was the hardest part, approaching the cliff-edge to which everyone in this room had come. For some it was drink, trying to blot out the memories of who they'd been, what they'd done. Others resorted to obsessive, repetitive behavior, or the threat of suicide. But everyone who teetered on this edge had to admit it, because the first step was honesty.

 _Everybody's done it_ , _and so can I_ , Anton told himself. Trying to keep his voice from quavering, he said, "I killed my entire family. Not like, actually lowered the ax. But I got them killed. And I have to live with that forever."

Soft murmurs went around the room, encouragement, support, kind words. They fell silent as Anton told the story of how Jack and the rest of the giant-killers had invaded Anton's castle and stabbed his brothers with swords dipped in poison which could kill giants with a single scratch. How Anton was alone for all those years afterward. How he had roamed the countryside of the giant-lands, finding no one alive, and then retreated to his castle in despair.

When he was done, soft voices circled around the group, thanking him. When they quieted down, Anton said, "It's, um, a little different for me. I was never cursed, so I always had my memories. But I still couldn't live with what I did."

"It's OK, Anton," Ruby said. "That's why we're here. And we're glad you are, too." Then she said to the circle, "I'm Ruby, and I'm a werewolf. I killed and ate my boyfriend."

"Hi, Ruby," everyone said.

Ruby just smiled, so Jarlais continued. "We focus on acceptance. When our memories came back, we had to live with who we were, what we had done. We can't change the past." He looked around the room. "Anyone else?"

Dr. Whale spoke up. "I'm Victor, and on top of everything else, I'm an alcoholic, too. Like you, Anton, I'm not from the Enchanted Land. I tried to raise the dead, twice. Both times, the results were monstrous. I turned my brother into a thing of horror, and he still is, if he hasn't yet died."

Ruby leaned over and took Victor's shaking hand in hers, while murmurs of acknowledgment went around the room.

Jarlais spoke, looking in particular at the new people. "I'm Gervais. I was one of King George's tax collectors, and I took the liberty to set rates far above what the king demanded. I had many men's wives, hundreds over the years. If I wanted a woman, I just demanded more than her husband could pay, and had him locked up. It always worked. They always submitted."

Anton listened to one story after another, while people asked for each other's forgiveness. Two women sat next to each other, a small young woman and an older stockier one.

The older one spoke first. "My name's Mara, and I ran a brothel. I bought girls when their parents couldn't pay their debts."

"I'm Alicia," said the young one. "Maybelle, in the Enchanted Land. Mara bought me when I was thirteen. I was there for six years until the Curse freed me."

Mara lowered her head and her voice was low. "Maybelle, I'm sorry." Maybelle didn't say anything, but grasped the older woman's hand back, in a hard squeeze.

"We've all been given a second chance," Jarlais said. "Whatever we did, we aren't bound by that. We don't have to do it again."

A young man slipped into the meeting, late. It was Alex's boyfriend, Carl. Almost her husband, for all practical purposes, as Alex had taken him fully for her own. Anton took his breakfasts at the rectory with Fr. Jacques and Madeleine, but suppers were reserved for Brigid, Alex, and Carl at the restaurant. Since the nuns had left, Brigid had strictly cut down the restaurant's hours to dinner hours only. Even then, more and more often the Bread Basket's sign hung in the "Closed" position.

Carl stood before the group, and his voice didn't shake at all. "I'm Carl, and this is my first time here. For some reason, my name was the same in both lands. At the age of seven, my parents were killed and our village burned. King George's men made me a slave in the King's kitchen. We were given only spoiled food and dry crusts, and were glad to get that. One day, another boy ate a dish of blancmange. I ratted on him, because they blamed me, and were going to beat me for it. They whipped him to death."

Anton sat listening, thunderstruck. Carl had never mentioned this, and Anton couldn't keep silent any longer. He knew you weren't suppose to interrupt someone when they told their story, but he couldn't help himself. "Why do you call it 'the Curse?' Sounds like it set you free. Like it was a blessing."

Several people looked at each other, but no one said anything. Then a small, soft chime rang out, and Jarlais said, "Coffee, everybody. Or bottled water. And Ruby here brought cookies, which are going to go fast."

A few people chuckled, and they got up, stretching their legs. Anton was especially stiff. There were a lot of fantastic things in this world: hot showers, refrigerators that made your drinks icy cold, books and hair dryers and work boots. These metal chairs, he could do without them, thanks.

Ruby pulled Anton aside to a small group with Victor, Fr. Jarlais, Carl, and Mara, the former brothel owner. "Now the real meeting starts."

"I think it's time to talk in group about leaving," Mara said to Jarlais.

"It's a divisive issue," Jarlais answered. "The group's focus is to deal with who we were, making amends if we can, and resolving not to do it again. Whether to cross the Line or not isn't our purpose."

"Some might start to feel judged if they do or if they don't," Ruby explained to Anton.

"People have already mentioned wanting to leave," Victor said.

Ruby gave him a long, critical appraisal. "Do you, Victor?"

"Not so long ago I was ready to check out permanently. And not just to the outside world. Don't you remember?"

She lowered her eyes. "I do."

Victor gave her a warm, sideways hug. "Whatever we do, we'll decide together."

Mara wasn't done yet, though. To Jarlais she said, "What good does it do to stir up the pot, to churn up all these emotions if we don't talk about what to do about them? It's not enough for me to promise that I won't pimp out any more girls. A lot of us talk about this, Gervais, even outside of meetings. We want to move on with our lives. And out there, we don't have to be tormented by it, or reminded of it."

A cluster had formed, listening. Carl the former kitchen slave spoke up and stated the unstated. "I want to go. I only haven't yet, because of Alex. But I've been learning about Outside. Parts of it are terrible, worse than where we came from. Others aren't, though. Besides, out there in the United States, where most of us would live if we left, it's a lot harder to get away with the stuff that was done to us back in the Enchanted Forest. There are laws, even if sometimes they're not fair. Because let's face it, people take slaves and steal and start wars because they can." He looked around the group, challenging them to prove him wrong.

"It's the fallen nature of man," Jarlais remarked.

"It's not enough to say we won't do those things," Carl insisted. "We have to live somewhere that makes it really hard to do them."

"Carl's right," Mara said. "You may have the resolve of a saint, Gervais, but most people don't. Some of us just want to live our lives, what's left of them."

Jarlais rubbed his chin, thinking. "In the Church we call it 'structures of sin.' It's what happens when societies make it impossible to do the right thing. People don't and can't do it alone. Everyone has to help."

"And not do stuff like take children as slaves."

Jarlais fixed Carl with a long, intent stare. "It happens out there, too, Carl. You can't fix all of it."

"There's another thing," Victor said, looking around at the small cluster. "What's to stop Regina, the Blue Fairy or anyone else from just whipping up another spell and forcing us all to go back? Or locking us here in Storybrooke for good?"

The group fell silent. Everyone had thought of that at one time or another.

When Carl spoke up, he sounded angry. "Well, I won't go back, as bad as things may be Outside. And if they do force me back to the Enchanted Forest, I'll become an outlaw. They'll have to hang me to make me stop." He looked around at everyone in the group, his square jaw set in indignation. "Why should anyone think they have the right to do this, just because they're a king or queen or sorcerer? Who do they think they are? We're not chess pieces. They can't just move us from place to place at their whim."

Anton said, "That's how I got here. Cora kidnapped me."

"We were all kidnapped," Carl said. "In one way or another."

"Ding, dong, the witch is dead," said Mara, voice full of bitterness. "And good riddance, too."

Fr. Jarlais was just about to reproach her when Anton said, "I didn't want Cora to die. I was afraid that if she did, I'd, you know, go back to being a giant."

Ruby gave a long sigh. "Anton, there are some spells that once they're cast, it's for good. With those, you never go back."

Victor gave her a sympathetic nod, and took her hand.

The small chimes rang once more. It was time to vacate the room, so that the other group could come in. Victor would stay for that one, and Ruby as well. Even though she didn't have a problem with drink, Victor liked having her there with him, and she was glad to do it.

"Come by the rectory tomorrow before work," Jarlais said to Carl as the two of them started to clean up. "We'll talk."

"Will we see you again?" Victor said to Anton. "We meet here every Tuesday and Thursday at seven."

* * *

Anton and Fr. Jarlais walked back to the St. Isidore rectory, both sunk deep in thought until Anton broke the silence. "What really does happen if you go, um, Outside? I mean, I saw Astrid and her sisters leave. Astrid called Brigid last week, but she didn't tell her what it was like or anything."

"You know Mr. Clark, right? One of your brothers?"

Anton was glad his blush didn't show in the dark. Half the street lamps in Storybrooke were still out, and they had to pick their way carefully through the dim streets. They passed under the clock tower, all the shards of glass finally swept up. Still, the tower's single broken eye stared out over the town like that of some vanquished Cyclops.

Finally Anton said, "You know, they're good guys. We work together in the fields. But, um, about that 'brother' thing—"

Jarlais nodded. "I thought that might be a little much. You might want to pay attention to this, though. This morning I cornered Mr. Gold, in between whatever he's so busy doing these days. Everyone's afraid of him, even more so now that they know who and what he is. I suppose he could have ripped out my tongue or turned me into a houseplant or something, but he didn't. In fact, he almost seemed wary of me." Jarlais laughed and gave his silver pectoral cross a little flip. "Perhaps he's superstitious. Anyway, I had a few questions for him. First, I wanted to know what happens when a person crosses the Line. Specifically, why didt Mr. Clark, and presumably the sisters as well, not go mad?"

"And?" Anton was listening hard now.

"If you're from the Enchanted Forest, you lose all direct memories of that. But Mr. Gold's answer was simple. Clark doesn't remember the Enchanted Land. But he remembers being a 'normal' person in an enchanted town."

"That's what the sisters thought would happen."

"Well, it's probably accurate. Mr. Clark remembers everything that transpired since the Dark Curse was broken. So all those things like the Wraith blowing through town, your stampede down Dock Street—"

"I'm really embarrassed about that," Anton said. "It helps, volunteering on the work crew to clean things up."

"That's good, Anton. We always want to try and make amends. The point, though, is that Mr. Clark remembers magic and magical events, because he remembers all of that which happened to him since the breaking of the Curse. And because of his close relationship with his brothers, he trusted and believed them when they told him what had happened to him, and who he was before."

"So, like, he'd remember being from the Enchanted Land, even though he wouldn't exactly remember the details."

"Exactly," Jarlais answered, smiling. "But I had a second question for Mr. Gold, too, equally important, even if it took him awhile to finally cough up an answer. Everyone here from the Enchanted Forest, everyone who was cursed, doesn't just have Cursed memories of a life Outside, one that they didn't really live. Everyone who was Cursed also has what people on the Outside call 'identity.'"

"Identity?"

"Papers. Certificates. Birth records, passports. For instance, there's really a record of my ordination in Montreal. Damnedest thing is, I remember lying face down in front of the Cardinal on the floor of Notre-Dame Basilica, even though it didn't really happen. And I have a Canadian passport, as well as naturalization papers that allow me to live in the United States.

"Dr. Whale's really licensed to practice medicine with the Maine Board of Healing Arts, if you can believe that. And Mr. Clark is registered with the state pharmaceutical board, and even remembers having to take the licensing examination, twice. See, those of us who were enchanted, we have a legal identity, because these _personae_ were incorporated into the Curse itself. Whoever leaves is going to have to have the same."

Anton just shook his head, confused. The rules he'd grown up with were simple and straightforward. No peeing in the bean field. No chasing after giantesses; they were to come to you. No killing animals for food, because their terror would infect you. But this world, what a mess. Finally he said, "I wasn't cursed. So I guess I don't have any, what do you call it, identity. Out there, I mean."

"Probably not," Jarlais agreed.

"What happens to you out there if you don't have 'identity?'"

"You get put into prison. And if you babble to the authorities about originally being a giant from a magical land, you may take a detour in the lunatic asylum as well."

"So," Anton said, knowing the answer already, "How, then, are things that much different here, compared to where you came from?"

Fr. Jarlais didn't say anything at first. Then, he spoke full of deliberation, as if he had asked himself the same question many times over. "No matter what side of the Line you find yourself on, Anton, you have to make your stand. As far as 'identity' goes, I think we can get you some, if you want. Mr. Gold can probably whip some up."

"Mr. Gold isn't going to give me anything. I have nothing he needs."

"Not Gold directly. Regina. She owes you."

"For what?"

"Her mother's dead. And from her haunted expression as she's been stalking about town, I'd say she's torn to pieces about it. Cora brought you here, Anton, and Regina feels dreadfully guilty about Cora. And you have something that Regina very badly wants."

"I still don't see it."

"Anton, why hasn't Regina just come and taken the beans? You know she wants them, because they lead to other worlds."

"That's easy. Anybody but me, anybody but a giant, I mean, if they pull one up, take it, even if they pick just one, it'll die." Then he paused, reflecting. "I guess that was one little part of giant-ness that Cora left me with. So that I could still grow the beans."

"That makes sense. And my guess is that Regina suspects it too. She can break the beans, destroy the whole field if she wants, but she can't make them."

"That's right." Anton stopped at the last crosswalk before the rectory, but didn't cross the street. He wanted to finish this conversation out under the open sky. "So can Regina do this? Make 'identity' for me?"

"I think so. For something in return."

"What's to stop her from just grabbing the beans and giving me nothing?"

"Force of habit," Jarlais answered. "Sorcerers make deals; it's how it works. And habits are unbelievably powerful. I think, Anton, that all Regina wants to do is take her son and leave. Make it easy for her. Give her that opportunity."

Anton nodded, his voice hesitant. "I don't know what Brigid wants to do. Maybe she, you know, might want to take me as hers for good. But Carl wants to leave, and if Carl does, then Alex might. And Brigid isn't going to leave Alex."

"Talk to her, Anton."

"I can't. She has to ask for me. That's the proper way."

"Perhaps you can meet her half-way."

A whole world of possibility spread out before Anton. Maybe in this new land not everything had to be done by the old rules. Maybe there were indeed ways to meet people, meet situations in the middle. "OK. Once I get your 'identity,' then I'll talk to Brigid. Then we can decide."

"That's right. You'll have options." Then Jarlais scratched his head, as if something had occurred to him. "One thing, Anton. It's not enough to get identity papers. You also have to make sure that the information that's on the documents has also been entered into the proper computers somewhere."

"Oh?" Anton said, groaning inwardly. There were more obstacles to getting where you wanted to go in this world than there were boulders and tree trunks in an uncleared field.

Jarlais was trying to word it as best he could, that was obvious. "You know, computers aren't just those small table-top devices we have in our houses. There are huge computers, thousands of them across the land, the world even, and they all communicate with one another. You know how the king of the realm had ministers, treasurers, tax-collectors, those who count the gold in the treasury?"

"Giants didn't have kings," Anton objected. "Each family of brothers ruled over his own castle. If they got into fights, the giantesses made them work it out."

Jarlais gave Anton a long look of sympathy. "My friend, you might have had the great good fortune to grow up in the closest thing in this whole sad creation to a utopia."

"Except for the part where I was the only one left."

"Yes, there was that. But let me go on. In that world, each one of those jobs was done by the King's men. Here, they're done by computers, and the people who run them. So when you get a driver's license, say, the information has to be also recorded on the computer that keeps track of all the drivers' licenses in the state.

"If you're thinking about doing what I suspect you are, and you try to negotiate with Gold or Regina, watch out. They're slippery, and they'll always try to drive the bargain which benefits them, not you. Just remember what I said. You can't just get the papers. They have to be backed up by all the information in the computers which generate those papers."

"Right," Anton said, feeling more out of his depth than ever.

Fr. Jarlais sighed as they walked up the rocky path to St. Isidore's. "Brigid can explain it. No, wait, get Alex to. She'll probably do a better job."

( _continued_ )


	11. The Culler and the Culled

**Chapter 11: The Culler and the Culled**

Anton lay awake most of the night thinking about the twelve-step meeting, and especially Carl's impassioned story.

Carl obviously had more to say, because he showed up at the St. Isidore rectory right after Mass the next morning. He and Fr. Jacques set out for a walk, without even stopping for breakfast first. Insulted, Madeleine spooned extra oatmeal into Anton's bowl and dumped a few more fried potatoes onto his plate, grumbling how Fr. Jacques was going to wither down to nothing and blow away if he kept skipping breakfast, and why couldn't he just have invited that nice young man in, if they were going to chat?

Anton suspected that Madeleine was irked because Fr. Jacques' and Carl's casual walk deprived her of her normal advantage at the "listening post," the spot just outside the kitchen window so suited to overhearing the priest's conversations. That was probably the whole point of the walk, anyway. Whatever Fr. Jacques and Carl had to say to one another required complete privacy.

Out in the rectory garden, Anton had just started digging a row for onions when it started to rain. Not just a sprinkle either, but a great gusting downpour which splattered mud all over Anton's robes.

Madeleine gave him a sympathetic look as he rushed through the kitchen doorway to take shelter inside. "Why're you in fancy-dress today? Thought you'd be wearing your overalls if you were heading out to that bean field."

Anton's muddy giant-land robes were the last of what remained of his former life, and they looked shabbier than ever. Only the embellishments glistened, the bangles and discs made of gold alloyed with platinum. They were his only ornamentation other than his rings, which nestled safe in a strong-box under the floorboards beneath his bed. Fr. Jacques had insisted on it shortly after Anton had come to live at the rectory.

"I know metals," Fr. Jacques had told Anton. Gold and platinum were valuable, and could serve as a powerful temptation to anyone. So normally Anton's robes were locked up with his rings, but not today.

Anything Anton said to Madeleine by way of explanation was going to sound stupid, but he tried anyway. "It's the plants. They're kind of at a critical stage right now. They like these clothes. I guess it reminds them of home."

Amazingly, Madeleine didn't laugh. A moment later, a horn blasted from the front of the church where David Nolan had pulled up. Anton ran, stirring up more mud.

It was a no longer bright-and-early 9:00 AM. The truck bed was full of dwarves, who grumbled a little as Anton climbed in. Because of him, they had to make another stop. It was late enough as it was, how were they supposed to get any work done? David, ever the peace-keeper, remarked that St. Isidore's was on the route to the fields anyway. Leroy just scowled and clambered up front with David.

Anton pointed to the back of Leroy's knit-capped head, which looked as disgruntled as the front of him. "He's not doing much better, is he?"

No one wanted to answer at first. Finally, Dopey said, "He misses Astrid." Anton never could figure out why they called him that, because his casually-dropped remarks often made more sense than most of his brothers'.

Doc said in a lecturing voice, "This is why Leroy always says that when it comes to matters of the heart—"

Anton held up his hand. "I get it. Stop, OK? Just stop." He wasn't in the mood, on this morning where the best you could say was that it had stopped raining.

Normally David joined them at work in the bean fields, if only for a few hours. This time, though, he pulled up to the sodden acreage and waved for everyone to get out of the truck.

"What's up with Charming?" Leroy groused as they piled out. "Doesn't he know we got work to do?"

All David did was stick his head out the window. "I've got a surprise, guys. Back in awhile."

Leroy just frowned, turning his displeasure onto the others. "OK, let's go. Half this day's been wasted already."

Anton had learned not to pay attention to Leroy when he got like that. Instead, he moved from row to row, crooning softly, occasionally brushing the plants with his wide fingers, or stroking the pods swelling with precious cargo.

Leroy passed by, still irritated because David hadn't stayed to work. "Only crazy old ladies talk to plants. You know that, right?"

Anton sighed. He'd given up explaining to the dwarves that while hoeing, weeding, and proper trellising were all critical, the crop needed something else, too. Anton had never raised giant-lings, but it was simple. The crop were like family, and they needed family.

That worked for Anton. Even though he had sown them like a father, he could be their mother, too. While giantesses didn't usually work the crop, they did wander through it as it grew, singing old songs with strange rhymes, half of the archaic words not even understood anymore.

It was one thing to do what you had always done. It was another thing to comprehend why you did it. Brigid would have understood.

The sound of gravel spraying under tires made him turn around. David was back, with Mary Margaret in the front seat next to him, and someone else whom Anton couldn't quite make out at first. Then he gave a start and almost dropped his hoe. It was Emma Swan.

During Anton's time at Dwarf Hollow, Leroy and the dwarves had tried to explain how David and Mary Margaret could be Emma's parents, even though they were so close in age. How that wasn't normal for humans at all, but was instead a by-product of the Curse. At the time, Anton had just shaken his head.

While it made more sense now, Emma's arrival also irked Anton. Emma hadn't come to see him at all. True, he could have sought her out. It wasn't as if they were courting or anything.

Old habits, old traditions die hard, and while human women weren't giantesses, Anton's manners had been pounded into him by hard knocks delivered by multiple sets of older brothers. When you were the youngest and smallest of a giant clan, you didn't get away with the slightest deviation from the straight and narrow, and the number-one rule of manners was that giants didn't seek out giantesses. You didn't look at them when they came to visit, unless they looked at you first, or called you by name. If they turned away, you didn't follow them with your eyes. It just wasn't done.

So when Anton had heard that Emma had returned from New York (wherever that was, but even in Storybrooke people spoke of it with awe), he had hoped she would come to see him. He wanted to tell her of how Cora had enchanted him, and the avalanche of new things which had almost buried him since coming to Storybrooke. Last but not least, he wanted to tell Emma about Brigid.

But Emma never came. That was OK, he told himself over the weeks. She was busy. She had her own work and her own family to worry about. So Anton had stopped thinking about Emma until this very instant, where she stood at the edge of the bean field, mouth open in surprise.

He rushed forward to hug her, manners forgotten, but his spirits fell when she hemmed and hawed, embarrassed to say what had been painfully obvious to everyone else. Finally he came out with the admission before she did. "I'm small."

An image flashed in his mind, of Brigid lying by his side in the wide bed which filled her small bedroom, wind blowing through the clapboards of her rickety house on the outskirts of town. With a blush he added, "I kind of like it."

Deep down, though, something cold and dank blew through him, leaving him as unsteady as when he had clung to a thick sewer pipe, hanging over a dark chasm. Nobody had thought enough to tell Emma that after Regina's growing charm had worn off, Cora's enchantment had remained. At least her father should have told her, right? Something ground inside him, like gears out of sync.

It wasn't that he was angry with Emma. But he'd seen David practically every day. It's not like they were strangers. There was no point in being disappointed at Mary Margaret, because even now Mary Margaret looked wan, her face white against her black beret. So while Anton didn't believed in Fr. Jacques' Man Jesus, Anton took to heart all that stuff about forgiveness. That's what they did in Twelve Step, forgiving first themselves, then others. If those in the group couldn't do that, their memories would destroy them.

So while Anton gazed on Emma and her family with sadness, irritation, and love, Leroy snapped at everyone to get back to work, clipping his shears to punctuate his words. With that, the gears within Anton stopped grinding and just slipped off their track entirely. Something inside him gave up. Mara and Carl from last night's meeting, they'd given up, too.

He really needed to sit down and talk with Brigid.

If Emma or Mary Margaret had bidden him to stay and visit with them, he would have simply ignored Leroy's orders. That was the giant way. But neither of the women did, so Anton took that to mean he was dismissed.

Soon after, David Nolan left with the women. Anton approached one of the trellises, where a few of the plants stood out pale against their dark-green sisters, their leaves brown and curled. As he stroked the stems, he chanted a few verses of an old song, listening to what the plant had to tell him in return.

It was the inevitable next stage, the time of the culling.

Only a very few bean plants would actually yield magic beans. The rest you could eat, although the giants didn't, as they boiled up starchy and dry. Of those beans which possessed magic, only a tiny fraction would actually take you through the tunnels between the worlds.

Back at home, when there still was one, the giants gave the weakest magical beans to giant-lings as toys. You could make dolls fly across the nursery, or hide somebody's favorite book by moving it into another cupboard when no one was looking. Some of the stronger beans were good for hide-and-seek, even. You could hide in one of the treasure-rooms and then, just as you were about to get caught, poof! you appeared in the scullery.

Beans which were stronger still served to transport great carts of equipment out to the fields, or could be used to help elderly giants with things they could no longer easily move. So while the vast majority of the beans wouldn't open a portal, they were still useful, even fun.

Out of the thousands of beans ripening on the vines here in Storybrooke, they would be lucky if the crop yielded two or three portal beans. And to get even those, you had to cull.

Anton grasped the weak bean plant with one hand and said under his breath, "I'm sorry. But I have to do this." Upon Anton's powerful yank, the plant came loose from the soft earth, then almost at once turned brown and began to shrivel.

Leroy ran up, waving his arms. "What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?"

Atop the piney hills rested clouds lighter than the ones weighing on Anton's spirit. He didn't say anything, just moved slowly up the row, touching each plant, pulling up one after another while the incredulous dwarves watched. Not every plant which he pulled was brown around the edges, either, but he couldn't explain.

Bashful sidled up next to Anton in his slow, shy way, and before Anton could say anything, he reached out and took hold of one of the yellowing plants. Anton said, "Uh, Bashful, wait a minute—" but it was too late.

The plant in hand turned from dark green to charcoal-grey, then started to smoke. Bashful dropped the charred remains with a yell, his palm red and scorched.

At once Doc grabbed Bashful's hand, scrutinizing the burn. "Probably won't blister."

While Bashful poured water on his sore hand, Leroy demanded, "When were you gonna tell us this little botanical detail, Tiny?"

Doc smiled brightly. "Obviously some kind of plant defense mechanism."

"That's right," Anton said as he looked over Bashful's hand. "Mud'll work better than water. And no, it won't blister."

While Bashful coated his hand with so much mud that it looked like a thick, grey boxing glove, Leroy with a disgusted expression called the rest of the dwarves to his side. "Since Tiny here has to undo all our hard work, and is gonna fry us in the meantime, let's go do something productive for once." He picked up his ax and the others did the same. Before he led them to the far end of the field, he delivered the final wounding salvo, "At least potatoes you can eat."

While the dwarves cleared the distal end of the field and planted potatoes, Anton walked alone up and down the bean rows, listening, deciding, pulling. Eventually, only about a third of the original plants remained, and the black, smoking pile of culled remnants grew until it reached chest-height. And as he stood staring at the dying work of his hands, the voice of the crop echoed strong in his mind, a song whose haunting refrain returned time and again to one word: _betrayal_.

* * *

By the time David Nolan came back to pick them up, darkness already cloaked the hills and fields. Leroy seemed to have forgotten about their earlier spat, and Anton and the dwarves laughed and joked during the bumpy ride back to town. Anton was just about to rap on the rear window to ask David to drop him off at the intersection closest to The Bread Basket, when Leroy clapped him on the shoulder.

"Why don't you grab some grub with us?" Leroy said, sounding almost pleasant. "Outside of work, you've kind of been a stranger."

Weariness washed over Anton. He'd been looking forward to helping Brigid close up the restaurant, then kicking back with her and the kids over dinner. Maybe, just maybe, she'd invite him home with her, as she had a few times since the night of the barn dance. That was something to look forward to with sweet anticipation.

Just his luck, the other dwarves chimed in, "Hey, Tiny, why not, come on, it'll be like old times."

Anton still suffered pangs of guilt over Bashful's bandaged hand. Reluctantly he agreed, trying to hide his disappointment.

The truck pulled up in front of Granny's Diner. As they piled out, at first Anton didn't take Leroy seriously when the dwarf told him point-blank, "Dinner's on you, Anton. The new guy can pay."

Anton just stared back. "I don't have any money." That wasn't quite true. He had his wages from Fr. Jacques back in his strongbox, and a handful of coins from the Enchanted Land were shoved deep in the side pocket of his robe. But he didn't feel like going into that distinction at the moment.

"Yeah, whatever," Leroy said as they entered Granny's, suddenly bright after the cool evening dark. The dwarves chattered noisily as they grabbed two tables. Anton, though, didn't sit down. He stood mute, as if at some critical cross-road. The feeling of wrongness and betrayal grew stronger. Some intense, spider-like curiosity watched the crop even at this very moment, filling him with anxiety.

Slowly he surveyed the restaurant, with the clump of dwarves at their tables. Granny swabbed a food prep counter, grimacing as she pressed. Ruby scooted from one table to another, heels clicking on the linoleum. And while Anton recognized some of the random people stuffed into booths, most of them he didn't, and in his gut he knew with sudden wrenching certainty that he would never meet them.

It couldn't be helped. Because the song with its one insistent lyric wouldn't quiet down.

Anton drew forth two gold coins and slid them over the counter to Granny. She didn't look at them at first, just said in a gruff voice, "What's this for?"

He struggled to remember the right words. "It's for my share of the lunches that were on the tab. And supper for the rest of the guys tonight. I'm not staying."

Granny suddenly recognized the coins for what they were. She picked them up, eyes gleaming. Instead of putting them into the cash register, she slid them down into the bosom-front of her dress. "Haven't seen any of these since the old life. Wait a minute, I'll get your change."

"Don't bother," Anton said, still struggling for the proper words. "It's a tip. Just make sure you split it with Ruby."

Now the dwarves were mostly silent, but Anton couldn't worry about that right now. The call of the crop rose to almost a scream: _Betrayal_ , _betrayal._

Anton stared Granny down until she handed Ruby a wad of Storybrooke money. Ruby caught him looking, and she slid along the counter to Anton's side. "Can I get you a beer, Tiny?"

He shook his head, eyes downcast. Her beauty was breathtaking, but he had other things on his mind. An idea struck him, blinding and obvious, so he leaned in close, his voice soft. "Can I, um, talk to you? Privately?"

Her eyes met his, swift with understanding. Pointing to the food storage area door, she spoke out in a voice loud enough for the dwarves to hear. "Anton, you big strapping man, could you give me a hand with a few boxes?"

"Sure," Anton said. "I'd love to." The dwarves stared as the two of them retreated into the storage room.

In the tiny storeroom she stood uncomfortably close, almost at his height, so that he smelled her faint perfume and the natural scent beneath, warm and intoxicating. Her whisper came out full of concern. "Tiny, there's something wrong, isn't there?"

"You can feel it too?"

"Ever since you guys walked in."

"Ruby, I know you got to work, but I need a favor. A big one."

"I'm not a slave to this place. What do you need?"

"A ride out to the bean field. But we can't make it look like we're going there. And you can't tell anyone. Then—" He halted from embarrassment. "You can't come back to work tonight. You've got to lay low, and if anybody asks you where you were, you were, um, driving around."

"With you. I get it."

"Sorry. I can't come up with anything better."

She untied her small, frilled apron. "No problem. Grab those boxes, come on, and follow my lead."

The boxes of commercial dish soap weighed very little, and Ruby could have moved them herself, but Anton played along. As they left the storage room, Ruby tossed her apron into the soiled-linen basket and gave her head a good shake, swishing her long raven hair. Even this brief motion turned most male heads in the diner, and a few of the women's besides.

"Where d'you think you're going? We got ourselves a full house here," Granny snapped as Ruby sauntered past.

Ruby just laced Anton's arm in hers, pulling him very close. She strutted past the dwarves with Anton in tow, saying to Granny, "Tiny and me, we're going for a ride."

Granny gave a disgusted frown, and her tone bordered on ugly. "Ain't it enough that you got one man dangling on the hook? Now you got to go fish for somebody else's?" Her gimlet eyes fixed on Anton. "And you, apparently you got no shame, either. Thought you at least were decent. And you throwing your money around here."

A pang of fear speared Anton. When this was all over, he'd have to explain to Brigid first thing. Good thing she wasn't a giantess. Giant-men didn't often stray, but when they did, it wasn't unknown for the aggrieved giantesses, their sisters, and sometimes mothers to team up and literally rip off heads.

Leroy glared at Anton, then followed Ruby with his eyes as she paraded through the restaurant. Happy gave Anton a thumbs-up, and as Anton passed Mr. Clark, he swore he heard Clark mutter, "Lucky bastard."

* * *

Ruby's truck was the same glossy red color as her lipstick, so candy-bright you wanted to lick it. As they pulled away from Granny's Diner, the racket in Anton's chest finally started to slow down.

It wasn't until they turned the corner and left the restaurant out of sight that Ruby said, "What's up, big fellow?"

"It's the crop. There's something wrong."

"Look, I don't mind driving you. But where are we going? And why'd you ditch the dwarves?"

"Just keep going north on this road. Then when you get out of town, make a left by the old mill." That part was easy. The next question, though, not so much. "Because the dwarves don't understand the crop."

"There's a lot of crops they don't understand," Ruby said with a laugh in her voice.

"It's not their fault," Anton protested. "The crop likes them, mostly. Well, the part about pulling out the weak plants, the sick ones, the dwarves didn't get that. But sometimes you don't preserve a crop at all costs."

"Tiny, you're losing me."

"Call me Anton. That's my name. The name my mothers gave me."

"Tiny was the name which showed up on your ax."

"Those were just letters on a piece of wood. My name's Anton."

She kept driving. Finally she said, "You're going over the Line, aren't you?"

"Probably. If Brigid wants to."

"Then why bother with the beans? If they're in danger, why not just let them, well, rot or whatever it is they do?"

The explanation wove itself even as he spoke. "Because I'm the one responsible, not the dwarves. I'm the one who's the last. Oh, wait, make this left turn."

Ruby swerved the truck around, fast. Then with panic in his voice, Anton said, "Pull over right now. Stop."

"Stop where? There's nothing here."

"It's kind of disguised." But that wasn't what had panicked him. A hundred yards up ahead, right where the bean field started, a car was parked. Sleek, dark, one of those expensive ones. And Anton had a pretty good idea whose it was. In a low, scared voice he said, "Listen, Ruby, you've got to get out of here."

"Anton, I can't just dump you, especially if there's danger." Then she looked down the long country road ahead, dark save for a bit of moonlight which skimmed the tree-tops. "Oh, crap, that's Regina's car."

"That's why you've got to leave as fast as you can." The singing in his head was muffled by the cloaking spell, but intense all the same. "Please. I'll be all right." He hoped that was true, and turned to her, full of feeling. "Thanks, Ruby. I mean it."

"Just don't get yourself killed." She gave him a quick buss on the cheek, then a friendly shove as he got out of the car.

He waited until Ruby was long gone before trudging up the road to meet Regina Mills, his heart as heavy as his mud-coated boots.

( _continued_ )


	12. The Reaper and the Reaped

**Chapter 12: The Reaper and the Reaped**

The cloaking spell wavered as Anton stepped through it. Regina Mills stood at the edge of the bean field, mud lapping the edges of her elegant shoes. Anton hadn't spoken to her since his first day in Storybrooke, when Regina had given him a potion to temporarily regain his full size, so that he could unleash his anger on the town. Now she stood in the middle of the field, pulling one pod-spray after another off the plants with an angry, frustrated expression.

Each bunch of pods stayed green and fresh in her hands for a few seconds, then soon curled up, turning dark grey and withered.

Regina must not have heard him come up behind her, or she was simply ignoring him. She plucked three or four more, and each discarded pod pierced his heart like a spear. Frustrated, she muttered something which sounded like a spell, then waved her hand around the plants. Little puffs of purple smoke flew off her fingertips, swirled about for a few seconds, then fell to the ground and disappeared into the well-hoed dirt.

All at once she whirled around to face Anton, her voice tight and cutting. "Well, Giant, who would have figured you for a sorcerer?"

"You want beans, I guess."

"Indeed I do. And I'm going to get them."

Anton didn't answer. He walked over to one of the stands of plants and gently stroked the foliage. The plants were silent now, either because he'd finally arrived, or from exhaustion from crying out for so long. He touched them as he walked from stand to stand, sending comfort down to the runners which spread out sideways like a great underground net and carried the quiet message from the few to all.

Regina folded her arms, skeptical. "So talking to houseplants isn't just nonsense after all."

"Why do you want beans?" he said in a quiet voice.

"That should be obvious. To take my son and go home. And I would think you would want the same."

"To go home? What home?"

"Oh, that's right," Regina said. "Human beings destroyed your home, didn't they? Well, people have a saying here. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Looks like someone's about to fool you twice."

"I don't have a home. Even if I go back to the Enchanted Land, I'm one of you now. That's what your mother did to me."

At the mention of Cora's name, Regina's composure first wavered, then hardened even more as she gestured towards the crop. "I strongly suspect they're not immune to fire."

The plants started up again, not shrieking in fear this time, but rather producing a soft sad murmur. _Goodbye, goodbye,_ they seemed to say. They sang not so much to Anton as to each other, holding each other through their roots, sending waves of reassurance. _It won't hurt much, it won't take long, goodbye, goodbye, we're going to the Source, back to the Source we go._ Then, as if every plant in the field had a special message for Anton, they sang, _It's all right. We are ready._

At once Anton knew. If Regina couldn't take any of the pods, she would simply destroy the field. Even in the moonlight, the deep green leaves kept most of their color, as if a light within them faintly shone. He knew why he was here, and what he had to do.

"You can't take a plant without my help," he said.

"That's obvious," she snapped. "Fortunately, my mother didn't humanize you quite enough. There's still enough Giant in you to give me what I want, even if I can't grasp it myself."

He shrugged, waiting.

"All right," Regina said. "Let's trade. But I'll tell you right now, I can't un-shrink you. That privilege was reserved for my mother."

Anton paused, genuinely surprised. "Why would I want that? My people are gone. I have new people now."

"The dwarves?" she scoffed.

He shook his head, not bothering to explain.

"Oh, that's right. Your girlfriend with the low center of gravity."

It sounded like an insult, but Anton wasn't sure why. Never mind. "Two things. First, you leave. I don't care who you take with you. I know you won't take Brigid, or Alex. And you can't take me, because like you said, Cora's gone. Her magic brought me here, not yours. But you can't have Carl."

"What, the kitchen boy with the big mouth? I've got no use for him. You'd be amazed what I've learned in this world about how to run things efficiently. I could manage a castle now on half the staff."

"Just leave the rest of us alone."

"What kind of bargain is that? That's exactly what I want."

"That's not all. I want 'identity.'"

"What are you talking about? Obviously your brain shrank even more than the rest of you."

Anton struggled with the unfamiliar words. What had Fr. Jacques called it? "I mean, identity papers. So that when I leave town, I don't go to prison or a madhouse. I want all the papers, whatever they are. You got them for everyone else when you cooked up the Curse. So you can cook some up for me."

"That's it?" Regina scowled, as if she didn't believe him.

"That's it. And in return, I give you a plant and set it up so it'll stay alive, so that you'll get a crop. It won't be a big one, though. Maybe one, two beans at the most. But if you screw it up, it's on your head. Because these are the last."

"That doesn't matter. One is all I need." Then Regina paused, as if something had occurred to her. From her purse she pulled out one of those small clear bags everyone in Storybrooke used to store things, and handed it to Anton. "I also want a stem with some leaves, to show Henry that we can really go home. You make sure that it doesn't just shrivel up on me."

"No problem." Then Anton added in a conversational tone, "You try to double-cross me, it won't work." Her eyelids flickered, and he knew he had guessed right. She _had_ thought about double-crossing him. "These plants only stay alive as long as I do. So you try to trick me, spell me, or mess with me in any way, and they're just ordinary beans. They won't even take you across the street, much less back to the Enchanted Land." He didn't know exactly if that were true. But he'd wager Regina didn't know, either. "So you go your way, we go ours. Brigid and me. And anybody else who wants to go over the Line."

"Fine," Regina said. "We have a deal."

"But you're gonna let me do it. Not you."

"Do what?" she snapped, but the tiny hint of a smile dropped from her mouth.

"You know. What you planned to do all along. I heard the crop all the way from town. If the crop is going to die, I'm the one who's going to do it. Not you." He almost added, _You don't have the right,_ but she was antagonized enough. He had known it was going to happen from the first moment he saw her car parked by the side of the field. "You were just going to burn them. I know how to make it not hurt."

"Fine. Fair enough," said Regina.

"Just so you know. You can try to grow more crop from the beans you get, but it won't work."

"What, you mean there's more to it than turning a trick in the field?"

He ignored that shot across the bow. "Ever wonder why the fairies didn't just make the dwarves grow beans for them? Because they can't. That's why everybody had to steal beans from us. Because only giants can grow beans. No more giants, no more beans."

"There's still some giant in you," Regina mused, as if something had just occurred to her. "What's to stop me from harvesting some beans, then just taking you back to the Enchanted Forest and making you grow more beans for me? That was obviously my mother's plan for Storybrooke. I could do the same."

"Cause I told you. You spell me, you double-cross me in any way, and all the magic goes." _Please, by all that is holy, let that be true._

A soft whisper came from the ground. Not from the plants, but somewhere else, he didn't know where.

 _It is true_ , the voice said.

 _Oh, thank you,_ Anton said to himself before turning once more to Regina. "Your mom thought she knew everything about giants, but she didn't. So you have a choice. You can take a plant and go home. Or you can spell me, burn the fields. Go that route, though, you get nothing."

"Very well." She looked as if she'd gotten caught, but didn't much care. "No tricks, then."

"One more thing," Anton added.

"What?" Regina didn't even disguise her impatience anymore. "I thought we were done. Are you actually trying to pull something over on me?" She waved her hand, and a threatening purple mist appeared around it.

"You don't just give me papers. These papers have to work with the computers, too." As he said it, he felt thick and stupid, expecting her to laugh in his face, or worse yet, scotch the whole bargain.

To Anton's surprise, she sounded indignant, as if her competence had been insulted. "What do you take me for?"

"What do you take _me_ for? I want to hear you say it."

So with a scoff Regina said, "Very well. Every piece of identity I give you will fully function exactly as intended, in both the United States and all its domains of influence, as well as internationally, except in those countries with which the United States has no diplomatic relations. There. You satisfied?"

Most of what she said made no sense, but her voice rang with sincere conviction, so he agreed. "Deal."

There was only one thing left to do. Up and down Anton walked along the rows for one final time, and as he walked, he brushed the plants with his broad palms as he went. _Take me, take me_ , each one said in her high-pitched, silent language. _Sorry, little ones_ , he replied as he passed. Over by the edge of the field, Regina paced around, waiting, but he ignored her.

One plant stood out warm under his touch, a fine lady draped all in green foliage. She wasn't the biggest, by far, but that was better, as she would live out the remainder of her short life in a pot. He thrust his face into her greenery and breathed deeply, swooning for a moment under her rich moist odor, the penetrating smell of a plant who carried beans capable of opening portals. He untied the cord which bound her to the trellis, took her in his big hands, and said with real regret, "This will only hurt for a second."

Then he pulled.

She didn't even cry out. Clumps of black dirt clung to her roots, and the pink root hairs which had once connected her to her sisters thrashed about like long, thin tentacles. He carried her back to Regina and said, "Give me your coat. We've got to wrap her up."

"You're not serious. That thing's filthy."

"What, you're welching on the bargain already? You have to do everything I say, to get a crop. So give me your coat."

She handed it to him at arm's length, as if it were already contaminated. "It's just an old thing, anyway."

Anton wrapped the bean plant in the fine wool with its silk lining, then broke off a leafy stem. "Here's the piece you wanted."

She put it in the baggie, and shoved it into her purse. "I suppose that mess has to go in my car."

"That's right. And not in the trunk. I'm going to hold her on the way back to town."

Regina opened her mouth to protest, but Anton had already turned away. He didn't want her to see his tears welling up. "I guess you want to watch."

"Damn right I do."

There was no way around it. She no more trusted him than he trusted her. With a leaden heart he set the coat-wrapped plant on the ground, then walked for the last time into the field of green-o. In that field Anton had sown the only surviving bean sprout from his castle home. In that field he had covered Brigid under a moon soft and pale as her skin, and that had been sweet, so sweet. He had worked that ground with the dwarves, and though they hadn't seen eye to eye on a lot of things, in many ways it had been like working with his brothers.

There in the rows of green ladies all, Anton said his silent farewells. He thrust his hands into the ground, and though it was covered with turf hard-trodden from many feet, the ground parted for him easily as water.

"Good-bye," he said.

From his hands buried to the wrists, a wave of blackness radiated. It scorched the grass in a widening circle of dark, as the gray waves of death crawled up each plant. Leaves curled and fell to the ground. The stems smoked a little, but the trellises which held up the plants remained untouched.

Hands mired in the earth, Anton felt every plant breathe her last. _Back to the Source, back to the Waters_ , they sang, and he cried without restraint. Not because the plants were sad or frightened, because they weren't. Their sweet green souls soaked into the ground like rain-water, where they merged together and spread out in an invisible flood.

He cried because the last link between himself and everything of his old life had just literally gone up in smoke.

Suddenly, as the last of the plants withered and died, he caught a glimpse of their final destination. Green it was, greener even than them, fair and beautiful, thick with kinds of foliage Anton had never seen. Great leaves like fans swung in the breeze. Trees formed arches so thick they almost blotted out the light, casting everything below into dusky shadow. The ground couldn't even be seen, so many thick-leaved plants covered it. What extraordinary leaves they were, too: wide as a man's body, pierced through with holes like lace. Thick ropy vines hung from the trees, and everywhere flowers sprinkled the ground, blossoms so bright red that they hurt your eyes.

Into this wild fantasy of leaf and blossom the green souls of the bean plants flew, sucked up into their living leafy bodies like water.

Anton bent over the ground now, exhausted from that radiant view. Soon that blazing tropical scene dimmed, and the song of the Source faded into silence. The earth released his hands, leaving them covered with black dirt.

He picked up the poor wounded plant wrapped in her dark shroud, the last of her kind, feeling no shame for his tear-wet face. Regina might have heard some of the crop's swan song, too, for her face had softened. She looked away, embarrassed, before turning and heading towards the car.

Wrapped in Regina's coat, the plant still lived, even though her root hairs only stirred faintly now, making little slithering noises against the silk lining of Regina's coat. All the way back to town, Anton cradled the plant in his arms as he would a wounded child, without looking back to the field where the blackened, devastated plants still smoked.

* * *

In Regina's grand office, Anton let Regina embed the plant in her dirt prison. If she was to thrive, she would have to get used to the touch of Regina's hands, the outflow of Regina's breath.

With folded arms, Anton stood before the abomination under glass. The plant faintly sang the kind of chant a child would croon to comfort herself, hoping that the adults who'd unfairly thrust her there would soon relent, to let her out. But for her there would be no rescue.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" Regina's cold smile was unfailingly polite.

Anton nodded, but didn't turn around. He heard spell-mutterings, felt cold wind at the back of his neck, smelled something like burning toast. He saw with a small vengeful pleasure that he'd tracked great gobs of dark field-mud onto Regina's pristine carpet.

Finally Regina said, "Here they are." She opened a yellow envelope and spread the contents across the slick surface of her desk. "You're Anthony Orcos from Kansas City, Kansas. It says so right here on your driver's license. Height six foot two, weight four hundred. Sorry if that's insulting, but I had to estimate something. At least I got the eye color right. Birth certificate, born in 1973 in St. Joseph, Missouri. Can you do arithmetic? That makes you thirty-nine years old."

"Of course I can do arithmetic," he said, flustered and angry as he stared at the unfamiliar cards and pieces of paper. "My mothers taught me."

"Very well, then. That should at least be consistent with your level of education. Then we have a Social Security card, which you absolutely do not want to lose, as even I can't spell you up another one. Finally, here's your GED from the Kansas City school district. Sorry, that was the best I could do on short notice."

Whatever those things, these places were, they would have to do. "Thanks, Regina."

Her eyes no longer held the same softness he had noticed in the field, but had grown hard. With a sick feeling in his gut Anton recognized the expression for what it was. Regina intended to do murder to someone or something, and he didn't want to stick around to find out who. She smiled like a glossy predator who hasn't yet decided whether it wants to play some more, or simply begin to feast. Almost as if she'd read his mind, she said in a tight, tense voice, "If you and your girlfriend are planning on leaving town, you'd better do it soon."

"No problem." Anton gathered up his "identity" and stowed the thick envelope in the front inner pocket of his robes.

Regina dismissed him as she would a servant. "Now get out of here. I have some work to do, starting with cleaning up this rug."

( _continued_ )


	13. Oath of Fealty

**Chapter 13: Oath of Fealty**

Loud pounding on the back door woke Brigid from a thin sleep troubled by ominous dreams. Pulling on her robe, she stumbled through the night-dark house, noting the time, 11:47, and thinking to herself that whoever this was, they had better have a good story to tell.

She flipped the back porch light switch, but nothing happened. Of all the times for a bulb to burn out. Grabbing the big utility flashlight which hung by the back door, she swung the intense light directly through the glass, and then uttered a little cry of surprise.

There stood a mud-covered Anton, wincing from the brightness, tear-tracks cutting pale streaks down his round cheeks and into his beard.

"Oh, sweet milk of Mary, what the hell happened to you?" Brigid unbolted the door and drew him into the kitchen with a warm embrace, ignoring the mud that flaked off everywhere.

He plopped down onto the nearest wooden chair, which gave a dangerous creak under his weight. Then he took her into his arms and just held her there for a long while, head against her breast, faintly trembling, while she unbound his long, earth-encrusted hair.

"Did you walk all the way out here?"

"Yeah. I tried to get Regina to drop me off, but she wouldn't."

"Regina, huh?" This tale was going to be worth listening to, but not necessarily in a good way. "Let me put on some tea. Chamomile, so it won't keep us up all night."

He shook his head, agreeing. "Are the kids here?"

"Down the hall. I guess they didn't hear you, because otherwise they'd have joined us already."

"Good. 'Cause I just want to talk to you right now, Brigid. And I need to get cleaned up, too."

"We can manage that. But can you at least give me a hint what this is about?"

He kicked off his mud-coated leather giant-shoes, then took off his embroidered belt and outer robe. Turning to her with an anguished face he said, "Brigid, I did something terrible tonight..."

* * *

As Anton told Brigid of his encounter with Regina, she ran hot water into the claw-foot tub, tossed in a couple of squirts of dish detergent besides, then swirled the water with her hand to make mounds of white foam. When Anton sat down in the tub, the bubbly suds peaked up over the sides like the topping of a lemon meringue pie.

Brigid grabbed a loofah. "Lean over and I'll get your back."

When she switched to the front, he laid his head back, eyes closed. "I needed this."

"You know, Anton, I think you did the right thing."

He sank under the water, then surfaced like a seal, his long dark hair streaming-wet. "I guess magic beans just aren't meant for this land."

She dragged an old milk stool close to the tub. "It would have been terrible if beans had gotten across the Line. I don't even want to think what some people might do with them."

"This world's as full of dangers as the Enchanted Land, isn't it?"

"Nowhere's safe. Nowhere's perfect. And while I may look settled here in Storybrooke, I've always lived my life ready to pick up and go at a moment's notice." She laid her hand on his forearm, not caring if the rolled-up sleeve of her robe got wet. "Ever since Cora died, I've known it. I look at that broken clock in the square every time I walk through the center of town, and it's like a message."

"Regina gave me papers, a license, stuff like that."

Her face brightened. "Good. Just make sure you don't use that driver's license right away. Let Carl and I teach you how to drive first."

He pouted. "Jacques let me drive the yard tractor. It even has gears, like the truck."

"Well, that's more advantage than Alex had when she learned on the five-speed." Then Brigid sobered. "Sooner or later, the dwarves are going to find out, and they're going to blame Regina, which I suppose isn't far off the mark."

"Like I said, Brigid, Regina was going to do it no matter what."

She leaned up against the tile wall, wishing that the claw-foot tub would fit them both. Right now she wanted nothing more than to curl up on Anton's chest and close her eyes. No reason to get her night-clothes sopping wet, though. So she slipped out of her robe and flannel nightgown, the bathroom warm and humid as a sauna.

She plunged her arms in the warm soapy water and started to wash her own face. "Anton, I know you're not supposed to talk about what happens in group, but can you tell me this? Carl really wants to leave Storybrooke, right?"

"More than anything."

"Then why hasn't he left?"

He didn't even have to answer. His expression told Brigid everything she needed to know.

"It's because of me, right? Because he doesn't think I'd want Alex to go."

Anton just nodded, then pulled himself up so that water slopped a little. "You know, I've been wanting to say this for awhile. I want us, all of us to go over the Line together. Like, like—"

"Like a family."

He blushed deeply. "That's right."

Inside Brigid, something warm and wonderful took wing. That soaring feeling of lightness fluttered around the big bathroom, taking in Anton's pile of muddy clothes in the corner, her robe and nightgown neatly hung on a hook, a pile of towels on the floor left by Carl or Alex, who knows. Then there was Anton, thoroughly filling the tub, and wearing nothing but bubble-bath soap and a smile just faintly tinged with anxiety along the edges.

Unsure because he still wasn't confident of what she was going to say in return, no doubt. There was only one answer, though, and as Brigid said it, the soaring hope let loose by Anton's words took full flight, passed through the walls of the tile-lined room, surged through the roof, to spread out across the whole night-blanketed sky. "Of course," she answered. "I would love that, too." She leaned over to kiss him, and when her breasts fell onto his soapy wet chest, they both laughed.

"We'll tell Alex and Carl in the morning."

He rose out of the tub like some huge sea creature, water streaming everywhere. "Maybe they'll have something to tell us, too."

"That wouldn't surprise me at all," said Brigid.

* * *

Brigid's bedroom was dark and cozy, full of velvets, bright-colored scarves draped everywhere, and pillows thick with embroidery. Squeaky-clean and dried, Anton crawled into the old four-poster bed, sliding up against Brigid as he entwined his thick legs around hers. Brigid brought him close, nuzzling his face and hair, loving how their bare skin slid together, the herbal smell of his breath, his soft damp masses of hair, the taste of honey on his beard where he'd missed a spot with the napkin.

He said, "I'm no good at making up what to say at a time like this. You know, to pledge ourselves to each other."

"Don't worry about perfection. What would you have said, back in your old home?"

"I wasn't the eldest, so I wouldn't have had to make the declaration. That would have been Arlo. But it went something like this." He took in a deep breath, which she could feel all down the length and breadth of him. "'We thank you, mistresses of our hearts, for entering into our castle and our lives.' Even if I don't have a castle anymore."

"That's beautiful, Anton. I never wanted a castle, anyway. So I'll say the same to you, and change it around so it's just for us. 'I thank you, master of my heart, for entering into my castle and my life.'" _And everywhere else you've entered._ She laid her cheek alongside his, hoping he could feel her smile in the darkness.

He lay there wide-eyed and solemn as he pulled her close. "Thank you."

She breathed into his ear, her voice low. "A fresh start, new places, it's kind of exciting, isn't it?"

"You have no idea."

As she ran her hand all the way down his front, checking, she laughed a little. "Not what I meant, but yes. Oh, yes."

Later, Brigid lay by his side, glowing over every inch and listening to his light breathing, his hand draped around her belly and head pillowed snugly on her arm. All at once she was licked by the same flame-like desire for exploration which had sent her across the Atlantic in a wind-blown wooden sailing ship a century and a half ago.

* * *

Brigid woke to the sound of footsteps shuffling down the narrow hallway. A bathroom door opened, then closed. The rich smell of freshly-brewed coffee filled the air.

"Hmmm?" said Anton, rubbing his eyes against the bright morning light which shot relentlessly through the half-drawn blinds.

"It's the kids." She stretched over, squinting at the clock. "Oh, sweet mother of mayhem, it's eight-fifteen. The goats must be frantic."

She scrambled for a flannel shirt and pair of overalls, while Anton had to make do with his long linen chemise and a blanket, wrapping it around himself like a shawl.

Alex and Carl, both dressed in t-shirts and sweat pants, were already sitting at the kitchen table by the time Brigid and Anton got to the kitchen. Alex said, "Hi, Mom. Hey, Anton, we missed you last night at supper."

Carl just gave Anton a sober nod, his long face unsmiling, brown hair all bed-tousled.

Alex pointed to the tracked-in mud. "You been doing some late-night gardening, Anton?"

Anton still sounded a bit sleep-befuddled. "Something like that."

"Boy, Mom, you must really like him. You'd have hit the ceiling if Carl or I made that kind of mess." As Brigid reached for her rubber wellies, Alex said, "Where you going?"

"Bonnie and Bluebell—"

"It's OK, Brigid," Carl said. "We took care of that a few hours ago. The cans are in the refrigerator in the barn."

Brigid sank into a kitchen chair. "You two, you're invaluable. Seriously. OK, you guys, Anton and I, well, we all have to talk."

"Yeah, Mom, Carl and I have got something to tell you, too."

Brigid almost spit out her coffee, struggling to keep her face impassive. She glanced over at Anton, who didn't seem to be fazed at all, then back to Alex. "OK, honey. You first."

Alex hesitated, but Carl gave her an encouraging nod. "Carl and I have been talking, a lot, ever since the dance out at the farm. I know I've only got like a month of school left, and you thought that after I was done I'd be able to help you a lot more with the restaurant. But Mom, that's not what I want. It's not what Carl and I want."

Carl said, "We want to leave, Alex and I. But we haven't brought it up till now, because we weren't sure what you thought."

"I didn't say anything, because I didn't think I could just, you know, uproot you two."

"Mom, everything's started to uproot already. Haven't you noticed?"

Carl added, "A lot of people have felt this coming."

"Alicia and Jen left with Mara just the other day, Mom."

This hit Brigid with a shock. "They did?"

"Mom, all they did was go over the Line. It's no big deal. I mean, we still have our phones. They've been updating their Facebook pages like every 30 minutes."

"No, it is a big deal. I've been such a fool, thinking that even after Astrid and the nuns left, that everything would just sail on its merry way. You saw it too, Carl, and I didn't really listen to you, either. And Anton, we should have talked more about this, before it came to a crisis."

"We're talking about it now," Anton answered.

Brigid tried to pull herself together. "So, Alex, is there anybody left going to school at all?"

"Mr. Gale, he said yesterday that he wasn't going to be there on Monday. Today's his last day, and that's just to collect his books and clean out his desk. He didn't have to say anything else. I know exactly what he's going to do."

Brigid said, "It sounds like school's not going to be an issue. That's one less thing to worry about."

"You could always home-school me for a month. Not like you haven't done that before."

"Car-schooling, more likely. Because we may be on the road for awhile."

"Well, Mom, like you always said, education is something that extends way beyond walls."

Brigid laughed, then looked over at Anton. "See what happens when you teach them to talk? They remember every word you say, then hand it back to you, gift-wrapped."

Carl took a sip of coffee, then cleared his throat. "Um, so about Alex and I leaving—"

"Yeah, Mom, it would be really nice if—"

Brigid took Anton's hand. "Would you like a matched set to accompany you?"

Alex leaped up, almost spilling her coffee. "Oh, my God, Mom, finally. It's about time." When she hugged Anton, the quick kiss she aimed at his cheek missed and landed on his temple instead. "I'm not calling you 'Dad,' though."

"You don't have to," Anton said.

Brigid raised her coffee mug. "So it sounds like we're all agreed. Here's to our fellowship."

Everyone raised their cups. Then Alex remarked, "Hope we don't meet any orcs on the road."

"The only ones we'll have to worry about are the human ones," said Carl.

"Orcs can be part human," Alex protested.

Brigid beamed. "We're going to do this. But first, Anton's got to bring you up to speed on something. Who's up for cheese omelets?"

Everyone was, so Brigid cooked while Anton told his story for a second time.

* * *

Anton was busy savoring the omelet which Brigid had just set in front of him, four eggs running with melted feta cheese. If heaven had been sauteed in butter and lifted hot from the pan, that's what it would taste like.

Suddenly he dropped his fork, and it hit the plate with a clatter.

Brigid laid a hand on his arm. "What's wrong?" He barely felt her touch, and her voice came from far away.

There weren't any words for what passed through his whole body like a vibration. The plant in Regina's office slept quietly, portal beans hanging heavy in their pods. Even though still green, the plant was starting to die. Still, her sleep was full of quiet satisfaction, as if she'd accomplished some pleasing task and was now ready to join her sisters in the Source.

The high-pitched shrieking which he felt all along the length of his nerves didn't come from her, but rather from Regina's sprig, the one he'd given her so that she could prove to Henry that return to the Enchanted Land was possible. The sounds of the kitchen faded, as well as the yellowed walls and kitchen table, along with the smells of breakfast. Everything melted into a dull greyish white.

Suddenly, Anton saw Regina's piercing dark eyes, then the round childish face of Henry Mills.

The sprig. Anton was seeing what the sprig saw, feeling what she felt. But because she had no words to interpret her experience, all Anton could see was Henry's young face as it changed from curious to perplexed to terrified.

Still partially attached to his body, Anton could sense Brigid and the others as they circled around him, shaking his arms as they made worried sounds, but he couldn't respond. The frightened cries of the bean-sprig drowned out everything. Regina's voice rose, angry, followed by Henry's urgent, angry protests. Regina thrust the sprig at the boy with sharp, harsh motions, which made Anton reel with dizziness, and before he could help himself, he started to topple over.

They lowered his head to the table, and so many hands supported him all over: head, neck, shoulders, under his arms. Henry's voice grew low and urgent as he begged his mother for something, Anton couldn't tell what. The wood of the table was cool against his cheek, and he shivered a little. He tried to ignore everything except what the plant was trying to tell him, but all he could make out were tiny shrieks of fear and terror. Something very bad was going to happen, and soon.

Then, all at once, the scene with Henry and Regina shut off just like the truck's radio. Brigid's kitchen swung into view and Brigid patted his cheeks, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to get his attention.

"Anton! Anton, tell me what's going on."

"Mom, oh my God, do we have to take him to the hospital?"

"Anton, talk to me!"

He half-pulled himself up, helped by Carl's strong grip, and sat up, blinking in the morning sunlight that poured through the kitchen window.

Brigid pushed her face right into his. "Talk, damn it, or we're going to the ER in Bangor right now."

He waved and gave a weak smile."It's OK. I'm OK. See?"

"What the hell happened there?"

Anton accepted a refill of coffee, and in between sips said, "Look, I'm all right. It was just strong, stronger than I expected."

"What was strong?" Brigid wanted to know.

"You know that piece of the bean plant I told you about, the one I gave Regina? I, well, heard it. I saw what it saw. Regina was talking to Henry, showing it to him, and then Henry got scared, really scared. And angry. After that, everything went black. Not black for me," he said hastily, seeing the alarm on Brigid's face. "But black for the plant. Like she put the plant in a box or something."

"Her purse, Mom," Alex said. "Regina must have put the plant back in her purse. Right after she did whatever she did to Henry."

"So you're feeling better?" Brigid said, focusing more on Anton than on what he was saying. "No headache, not dizzy? Vision normal, not blurred?"

"None of that stuff. Brigid, I'm really OK. It's just never happened that strong before. It's what the plants do, to warn us. Or did." Suddenly it washed over him, that never again would the bean plants call to him as they once did. "Like if crows came to the fields to eat the harvests. The plants would let us know, so we could chase the crows away. Or if the moths laid their eggs. We could pick them off before they turned to caterpillars."

"I don't think I'd want to see giant caterpillars," Alex remarked. "Ugh. The ones we have around here in the summer are bad enough."

"Can you stand?" Brigid asked him.

Anton waved his arms and turned around once, then twice. "See? Whatever it was, it's over. But like I told you, Regina did say that if we were going to leave, we should do it soon."

"I agree," Carl said. "If Anton's all right, and you don't need me, I'm going down to the cannery to give notice, pick up my pay."

Alex added, "I want to go by school and say good-bye to Mr. Gale. Carl can take me."

"I'm keeping an eye on you for the next half-hour or so," Brigid said to Anton.

After Carl and Alex left, Anton hung his robes outside on the back porch, alternately sponging them and brushing off the dried mud. Beneath the solid brown coating, the giant-land robes were ruined, covered with scorch marks and even holes in some places. The long black streaks made the fabric weak and friable, and there was very little which could be saved.

Back in the kitchen, he took Brigid's kitchen shears and carefully snipped off the metal spangles which had decorated his once-rich red robes. Soon there was a pile of gleaming bluish-gray metal on the table, many of the small circles dotted with centers of blue or gray gems.

"Jacques seemed to think they were worth something," Brigid remarked.

"Well, whatever they're worth, they're all of ours now."

"We've got to go to the bank. I need to cash out the account, and in the safe-deposit box I have a few pretty gems of my own."

Anton nodded, standing there in his thin linen chemise and nothing else. Brigid looked him over and said, "You're fetching, but more than a little __déshabillé__ for Storybrooke. Maybe I should run over to the rectory first and get your things—"

Just then the telephone rang.

Brigid went into the living room to answer it, where Anton could hear her murmuring for a moment or two. "Well, speak of the devil… No, no offense intended..." She made a dry laugh, followed by a long pause.

While she talked, he examined his trousers, which he'd hung up to dry by the stove. They were mud-streaked but wearable, and he slipped them on. That, with his shoes, made him as dressed as he was going to be.

Brigid was finishing up her conversation. "All right, we'll be there in a few minutes... I don't care, they can wait… Yes, he can explain everything… No, don't say anything to them. Wait till we get there... OK, good-bye."

As she came back into the room, Anton said, "What now?" He didn't like the skeptical rise of her eyebrows, or the wry, humorless twist of her mouth.

"That was Jacques. He has a house full of dwarves, all back from the bean field, all hopping mad and calling for somebody's head."

( _continued_ )


	14. The Leavers and the Left

**Chapter 14: The Leavers and the Left**

Anton stood with arms folded while Leroy paced back and forth in front of the rectory garden, his grumbling voice grating on Anton's ears."So this is how it ends. All our work, for nothing. Regina's got the beans. And there won't be any more, since you're blowing this popsicle stand."

The other dwarves stood silent, listening. On the other side of the garden, Fr. Jacques and Brigid stood deep in conversation, occasionally glancing over.

"But if Cora hadn't kidnapped me, you wouldn't have had any beans to start with. You'd be right where you are," Anton said after a few beats.

Leroy huffed a bit, clearly nonplussed at the thought. "What about all that work we put into the field?"

"No one made you do that. You wanted to. And have you seen the potatoes recently?"

"They're a foot high already," Happy put in. "Nobody around here grows potatoes like that. Not back in the Enchanted Forest, either."

"Oh, great, we can eat the best french fries in Maine, instead of going home," Leroy.

Sympathy washed over Anton. Leroy had no one holding him here, nothing. From Leroy's point of view, Astrid had walked out of his life. His brothers and the Charmings were all Leroy had, and all of them were bound together by threads in which Anton was no longer entangled.

Anton sighed. "Look, why don't you go talk to Regina? Try to get her to use the beans for everybody."

"Oh, sure," Leroy scoffed. "Just waltz in and ask the Evil Queen to be, um, not evil."

Anton shivered a little, recalling from his shared memory with the bean sprig the icy tone in Regina's voice. "The plant I gave Regina had three portal beans. And there's what, about one hundred, hundred and fifty people left in Storybrooke? You can divide everybody up, put them on three boats. Someone on each boat opens a portal, and you all go back home. Not just Regina and Henry, or just the Charmings. Everybody." But even as he said it, deep in his bones he knew there wasn't time, and even if there was, things most likely weren't going to happen that way.

"You know why that's not gonna work, Mr. Idealist? Because when the Charmings get their kingdom back, that's gonna be the end of Regina's powers, and she knows it. The prince has got plans for her."

"Oh, vengeance," Anton said. "Very smart." He remembered Fr. Jacques saying, _An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,_ _and the whole world is left_ _blind and toothless._

"It's not your land, Anton," Leroy answered back. "It's not your family."

Brigid had tried to explain to Anton the intricate web of inheritance which linked Regina to the Charmings, although he still didn't get most of it. But one part he did remember. "She's Mary Margaret's step-mother. That has to count for something, right?"

Leroy was obviously worn down by the circular nature of the conversation. "It's never gonna happen. You're never gonna see Regina back in the circle."

They were just going to have to disagree, but something pushed Anton to try again. "Never say never."

Throwing up his hands, Leroy looked around at the other dwarves. "Come on, boys, let's go. Nothing more to be gained here."

Instead of turning to leave, Happy reached for Anton's hand. "Good luck, brother. We've still got your ax, if you want it."

Anton drew him into a hug. "Thanks. Thanks for everything."

The dwarves filed down the twisting, yew-lined path which led from the rectory garden to the street. Just before they turned out of sight, Anton delivered the final salvo. "Hey, Leroy, just one more thing."

Leroy turned around, an irritated look on his face. The other dwarves stopped too, like clock-work.

"Brigid talked to Astrid the other day. She's in Los Angeles, teaching at a parish school. She says, 'Hi.'"

It was heartbreaking to watch Leroy's hard expression melt into softness. He stood riveted to the path, as if spell-bound.

"Fr. Jacques has her cell number," Anton added.

All at once the spell was broken. Leroy pulled himself together, gave a curt nod, and headed down the path. Soon the dwarves vanished around the corner of thick foliage.

Anton blinked back tears as Brigid and Fr. Jacques joined him. To distract himself, Anton looked over the rows of little new peas which peeked out through the black garden soil, the light green seedlings already sending their tendrils out, looking for support. In a thick voice he said to Fr. Jacques, "You're going to have to build a trellis in the next few days."

Jacques gave him a warm look, full of sympathy. "Come on, let's get your things."

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a haze of errands and packing. Carl's pickup truck was fine for driving around Storybrooke, but it was obvious that it wouldn't make it cross-country. He did have a camper shell attached to the back of his truck, though, which fit Brigid's F-150 exactly. They fastened it to hers, then packed as much as they could into the Ford pick-up and Crown Victoria station wagon.

Carl parked his own truck in the front yard, slipped the signed title into the glove box and said, "Whoever wants it can have it."

"They can always use another truck up at Grey Hill Farm," Brigid remarked.

By the time night fell, everyone collapsed into bed, exhausted.

* * *

The next morning, Anton was the first to wake, haunted by a barely-remembered dream. The plant in Regina's study was singing, faint and faraway. Seed pods were being stripped off of her one by one, but she wasn't afraid. She gave a great sigh, and then her voice faded into nothingness. As Anton drifted between dream and waking, he knew that by the end of the day she would be nothing but a brittle, brown husk.

He stared at the ceiling as a few faint slivers of dawn slipped through the closed curtains. Once these beans were used, never again would this world or the enchanted one ever see any more of them. But he could grow other things: fruits, flowers, vegetables. And maybe in this new world to which he was going, that would be enough.

Brigid's carved wooden clock-face read 6:23 AM. She lay curled on her side, deeply asleep, so he watched her for a few more moments. What a marvel it was to wake up by her side, and even more marvelous that every morning could start like this. Not in this bed, though. Not here. And while he had never slept in a tent or "gone camping," as Brigid put it, she assured him that it would be fun.

But first things first. They were to start out as early as they could, yet Anton didn't want to wake her. He picked his way carefully out of bed, and even though it creaked and sagged, Brigid still slept on.

Draped in his flannel bath-robe, Anton padded heavily into the kitchen. He set the coffee on to brew (light roast, extra-strong the way Brigid liked it) and listened to the percolator gargle while he stood at the cracked tile counter, lost in thought. He had just poured himself a fragrant mug-ful when a light tapping sounded at the back porch door.

There stood Amanda and Amaltheia, wrapped in identical black wool coats and small, mysterious smiles, and Amaltheia carried a bulging paper sack. Out back in the goat pen, two of the "grandsons" whose names Anton never could get quite straight were just about to start the milking.

The two Grey sisters crowded into Brigid's kitchen, shutting the door quickly against the early-morning chill.

"Where's Amber?" Anton asked.

Amaltheia's face fell. "Home. Best to wait for— Oh, there you are, sleepy-head."

"What's this, a party?" Wrapped in a chenille robe, Brigid stood in the kitchen doorway, her hair wild around her drowsy face. Alex and Carl crowded behind her, trying to squeeze through the narrow passageway until the three of them popped into the kitchen.

Alex said, "We heard knocking. What's going on?"

Amanda handed Brigid the paper package. "It's a going-away party."

"Oh, look at this," Brigid said, picking off a pecan from a cluster of cinnamon rolls, still warm from the oven. "Come on into the dining room. We can all squeeze around the table."

Carl poured coffee for everyone as they settled themselves. "You were going to tell us where Amber was," Anton said.

"Home," Amaltheia answered. "The poor thing is exhausted. We finally got her to sleep, and then we left. Two of the girls are with her."

Amanda said, "It was the cards, Brigid. It was 'the hour of the wolf,' and Amber woke up from a nightmare, making the most awful shouting. She hasn't done that in years. We calmed her down but all she wanted was to lay out a spread. So she did, a huge complicated one. Then she cried, and said that for the first time, this gift was too much to bear."

"My God, Amanda, what did she see?" Brigid said.

"Destruction. It all centered around the Queen of Swords, the Magician, and the Tower, which all seem pretty obvious. The Queen of Swords, Regina. The Magician, Gold—"

"And the Tower is Storybrooke," Brigid added.

Amanda said, "Falling down, falling apart. Can't you feel the magic weakening, slipping?"

"At least you've already started packing," Amaltheia said.

Brigid couldn't shake the image of the falling Tower. "Amanda, that card spread, though. It's so ominous."

"Not necessarily. Remember, Brigid, the cards don't tell the future. They show you possible futures. We always have a choice. I'm pretty sure that all of us up at Grey Hill are safe. And while we hate to see you go, it's clear that something's going to happen, maybe even this very day. Whatever sorcery is coming down the pike, it's going to hit the Enchanted Land people hard."

Alex crept closer to Carl and nestled up against him. "Mom, we've got to get going. Now."

"Soon enough, Alex," Brigid said.

Amaltheia added, "We also came to make provisions for your livestock."

"Right," Brigid said, her face falling.

Anton knew that wherever they were going, Bonnie and Bluebell couldn't come along with them. He wasn't attached to the goats, himself. In fact, he was a little scared of them, especially when they nipped his overalls or tried to butt him from behind. But he knew Brigid and Alex loved them, and were going to miss them terribly.

"Let's get this over with," Brigid said as she pulled on her coat over her robe.

Outside, the two young men were loading insulated metal milk cans onto the back of their pick-up truck. Anton noticed an empty livestock enclosure mounted in the back.

Brigid knelt in the cold straw of the pen and ran her fingers through Bonnie's long silky hair, then through Bluebell's shorter, coarser pelt. "Come on, girls. The guys here'll take good care of you. Not like me, who can't get up in the morning to milk you half the time."

"Oh, Mom," said Alex. "Don't cry."

"I'm not. My eyes are just leaking, that's all." She guided the two goats up the ramp and into the cage, giving each a final pat as they entered.

"We're gonna head on back now," one of the grandsons said to Amanda.

As the truck bounced down the driveway and disappeared from sight, the life seemed to go out of the house. Now, to Anton, it seemed exactly what it was, just a rented building full of furniture that wasn't theirs. In fact, Brigid was handing the keys to Amanda.

"Shouldn't you be giving them to Mr. Gold?" Amaltheia said. "He's the landlord, after all."

"Given what Amber saw in the cards, my guess is that he won't be a landlord for very much longer," Amanda answered.

"What about the restaurant?" said Amaltheia.

"I already gave the keys to Jacques Jarvais," said Brigid. "As long as what's in the storeroom holds out, he'll run it as a food pantry. After that, well—"

"After that, it's not your problem," Amanda said in a firm tone. "We'll clean up here, stay to see you off, then empty your fridge. And we'll send the truck back down for the chickens."

"Thanks, you two. For everything."

As they all headed back inside, Alex said, "By the way, Mom, where are we going?"

Brigid thought for a few breaths. "I don't know. Since we have two land boats rather than seaworthy ones, we'll forget about east. And to the north there's Canada. So, west. I think we'll head west."

* * *

The little caravan of station wagon and pick-up truck made its way westward across a Maine landscape dusted with the light green of early spring. Avoiding the interstate would slow their cross-country trip to a crawl, but no one cared. They rolled at a steady forty miles per hour through petite towns, past fields bordered with stone fences older than Brigid herself, and small, cozy farms.

About an hour past Lewiston, the traffic dropped off. The sky grew heavily overcast, leaving the beeches and maples almost black against the gray sky. There was a smell of approaching snow in the air, the kind of surprise storm which could ambush you at any time in a New England spring.

The road made a long, twisting curve around a hillside, then all at once opened up into fields interrupted every so often by thick clusters of trees. The caravan crossed one creek, then another, until the fields were replaced by long stretches of forest draped with dusky shadows.

Once more the road curved, this time to the south. Up ahead, Brigid saw a car with its hood propped open, pulled over on the narrow stony shoulder. A bundled-up figure sat next to it, on what looked like a lawn chair. It was hard to tell if the lone person was a man or woman, but from their mop of bone-white hair it was certain that they were old.

"We're stopping," Brigid said. "They might not have a phone." She eased the station wagon carefully onto the shoulder, which ended in a somewhat menacing rocky drop-off. Behind her, Carl and Alex pulled up as well.

Anton started to unbuckle his seat belt. "Who? Who doesn't have a phone?"

Moved by some sudden instinct, Brigid grabbed her travel bag and laid a hand gently on Anton's. "No. Just stay here, OK?"

As Brigid walked past the truck, Alex rolled down the passenger window. "Mom?"

"No need to get out of the truck, hon. Just checking something out."

The old woman glanced up as Brigid approached. She was smoking a wooden pipe that looked hand-carved, and the thin stream of smoke which hung in the air gave off a smell like burning leaves in the fall, with a faint undertone of cinnamon. The old woman showed Brigid a gap-toothed smile.

"Did your car break down?" Brigid asked.

Instead of answering, the old woman took the pipe from her lips and blew out a long stream of smoke. The bluish-gray cloud didn't blow away in the wind, but instead just wreathed around the old woman's white head. "Not my car," she said in a raspy voice.

"Are you all right? Do you need a ride someplace?" The old woman looked pretty comfortable right where she was, though, perched in one of those cheap white plastic lawn chairs that stick to your rear end when you try to get up.

"Doin' just fine here." She was wrapped in one of those old down coats that the old-timers wore, with a long, crudely-knit scarf wrapped several times around her neck.

There was something eerily familiar about her. Now the old woman stared back frankly at Brigid, daring her to make the connection. When it came, the only shock Brigid felt was surprise at how she hadn't seen it before.

Anton got out of the station wagon, walked up to the truck, and started to talk to Alex, who still had her head stuck out the window.

"So that's the girl you got," the old woman remarked. "She looks mighty fine. Is that her young man behind the wheel there?"

"It is."

"Found you a man of your own, too. Strong and hearty, by the look of him."

Brigid blushed. "I know, right? How long did that take?"

"Just the right span of time."

Perhaps it was too bold to ask, but Brigid had to. "Can you tell me this? How did you cross the ocean, get all the way here from Ireland?"

The fae woman, for indeed it was her, made an indignant noise. "Can't a body climb on-board a ship like everyone else?"

"Of course you can," Brigid answered, placating. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"Well, I am a mite hungry. I smell something good in your bag there."

Without hesitation, Brigid pulled out a paper bag stuffed with a few last-minute things scavenged from the breakfast table: a goat-cheese sandwich on wheat, three plums, and one of the cinnamon rolls. "Here," she said, offering it to the old woman. Because it was cold, Brigid also handed over her pint thermos filled with coffee.

The old woman balanced the food on her lap, then gave Brigid something in return. When Brigid didn't move at first, she said, "Take it, girl."

It was a thin gold coin with a finely-incised image of a single leaf on one side, and completely smooth on the other.

"But this is too much, it was just some leftovers—"

The old woman took a long swig of coffee. "The first coin I gave you was for spending. This one's for keeping, and it'll bring you luck. You won't be rich, but you'll always have oats in the pot, chickens in the yard, and neither bailiff nor landlord will ever darken your door. That man of yours'll serve mighty handy with the spade, and never fail with the plowing, either. If you take my meaning." Here she gave Brigid a grin both wicked and merry.

"Thank you," Brigid said. "For my life. For Alex. For everything."

The old fae woman made a snorting noise and waved her bony hand. "Get along with you now, if you want to make camp before snow falls. And let me eat my sandwich."

"What's going on, Mom?" Alex said as Brigid walked back.

"Nothing. It's fine. I just gave her a lunch."

"Gave who a lunch?" Anton said, still standing by the truck. "Because all I see is an old, broken-down car."

Alex said, "Speaking of lunch, Mom, I'm starving."

Brigid wanted to turn around very badly and look back, just to see if the old woman was really there, but a strong feeling washed over her that she shouldn't. All she said was, "There's a state park about five miles or so up ahead, if I remember right. We'll stop there."

Alex pulled her head back into the truck. "Awesome."

"What just happened back there?" Anton asked, squeezing back into the station wagon.

She showed him the coin. "The last figment of my old life."

"I didn't see anything. Was she a sorceress?"

"One of the fair folk. She said I was to keep this for luck." She slid the shiny golden thing between her thick wool sock and the side of her winter sneaker, pushing it down as far as it would go.

"Well, then," Anton said. "That's a good sign, right?"

Brigid nodded, then kissed him slowly and very thoroughly. When done, she glanced in the rear view mirror, where Alex leaned over Carl to give the truck's horn a couple of short, impatient toots. Of course the old woman was nowhere to be seen. With a little sigh of happiness, Brigid pulled out onto the state road, leaving Storybrooke behind forever as they traveled onward, into the west.

( _The end, although I'm thinking about an epilogue..._ )


End file.
